


Heaven Keep Us Apart (for you I’d burn the length and breadth of sky)

by Rena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Once upon a time, an angel and a devil fell in love.</i>
</p><p>Angels and Fallen have been waging war against each other for so long that Derek hardly remembers what peace was like anymore. So when he's lying on the battlefield dying from blood loss, the last thing he expects is for one of his enemies to save his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [My Medea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzxUiCgTXVc) by Vienna Teng

**_._ **

_Once upon a time, an angel and a devil fell in love_

_It didn’t end well_

_._

Thick wads of black smoke are darkening the sky, black against the vibrant, bloody red of the setting sun, and Derek thinks he’s in Hell again. But there’s no screaming of tortured souls to be heard, only the distant whimpers and moans of his people mixing with the ones of Angels that are all lying on the field, wounded and on the verge of dying. The sound of clashing swords and the flapping of strong, regal wings has died out just like the battle cries, and it’s the almost-quietness, the eerie, verklempt not-quite-smugness in the air that tells him that they have lost this battle. Had they won, his division’s howling would make the air reverberate with their victory. Had they won, Laura would have long since been by his side to take him somewhere safe.

But they didn’t win, and now Derek is lying on the wet, slippery ground in what is –mostly, but not solely – his own blood, and he is going to die.

He clamps his hand down on his forearm where the poisoned arrow pierced through the pale skin, as if that could make it better. The wound isn’t healing; the wolfsbane is preventing it, and he’s losing blood too fast, mostly through the deep stab wound in his stomach, a gash that won’t close because his body is focusing desperately on battling the infection spreading through his veins. A hopeless fight, he knows, and he tells himself it doesn’t really matter whether he bleeds out or the poison reaches his heart first. Dead is dead, after all, and the only thing he should care about is that death comes fast, before the Angels that are cautiously slaloming around the bodies of his fallen comrades looking for survivors reach him.

Death by bleeding out would be far kinder than what they’d do to him should they take him alive. He’s heard about the proficiency of the white-winged, arrogant race when it comes to torturing. He’s gotten a taste of it, too, of their cruelty and mercilessness, when Kate locked his entire family in the basement and burned down the house around them.  

There’s absolutely no reason for him to press his hands down on his wounds, weak as the pressure may be, in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. He’s known he deserves to die for a long time, he’s _wished_ for death almost as desperately as he wished he could turn back time, but he can’t seem to let go just yet.

Nevertheless, his eyes are slowly drifting shut, the effort of holding them open too strenuous. Also, the dark is nicer, more peaceful. He can almost pretend he isn’t surrounded by corpses and destruction. Derek wishes he could block out the smells as well, because the smell of blood and gore he can deal with, but the one of charred flesh is making him nauseous with the memory of another day six years ago.

He hears a shuffle to his left, careful footsteps, and tries to swallow, but his throat is impossibly dry and itchy thanks to the smoke. He contemplates the chances of getting away with feigning death (zero) versus letting the Angel come close enough to rip is throat out with his teeth (close to zero, but a little better than the first option) and forces his eyes open a little.

A tall, slim figure approaches him slowly. Against the light of the sun, it’s impossible to make out any distinguishing features, but Derek sees that he is leaner than most Angels who’ve been trained to fight from the beginning, and that while his steps are cautious, his muscles aren’t tensed and coiled like a spring, always ready to strike. A young one, then, or an Angel who isn’t really accustomed to being in battle: a Healer, perhaps, looking for the ones of his brethren he can still save. Discomfort and sadness are radiating off him, and Derek doesn’t know whether that will make him more likely to use the long spear in his right hand – until now only used to not lose his footing – and the swords dangling on his left hip or not.

He turns his head to get a better look, and the Angel has definitely noticed he is still alive now. After a brief moment of hesitation, he draws closer.

His wings are beautiful, Derek notices absentmindedly, all elegant curves and snow-white feathers, unmarred and promising the exhilaration of a flight at high speed with precise agility, even against strong winds. They stand in stark contrast to his own wings, which are heavier and thicker, as coal-black as his hair and, at this moment, as torn-up as his body. Instinctively, he curls them closer to his body, ignoring the sharp burst of pain the movement causes, because the forces of Hell forbid his enemy got a hold of them.

It’s always the first instinct of any winged creature: protect your wings. Protect the most fragile part of your anatomy. It’s vital, for survival. For flight.

Of course, he won’t be able to do shit to even remotely shield the sad and broken remains of his wings in the state he’s in.

The Angel stops next to him, looking down at Derek’s face with a look he can’t quite disentangle. There’s curiosity and wariness and something he’d call pity if he didn’t know better. Angels don’t know pity. It’s ironic, because that’s what they always accuse his race of, not knowing mercy or pity, or any other emotion. The Angels also say the Fallen are brutal and vicious and more animal than anything else (and they are, in a way, but that doesn’t mean that they’re stupid or that they don’t know love), and the Fallen say of the Angels that they are stone cold and hard and unforgiving.

He thinks they’re probably both right.

But this particular Angel – not much more than a boy, Derek can see that clearly now, can see the doubt and the viridity in the curve of his cheekbones and the tilt of his brows, the flex of his fingers, read it in the minuscule stutter of his heartbeat, although there isn’t the slightest hint of fear (what’s there to fear? Derek is as good as dead already) – exudes warmth and gentleness and _softness_ , and Derek doesn’t know what to do with that.

The Angel has dark brown hair, cut shorter than it’s the custom, and hazel eyes that could have been made of liquid sunshine and –

And he’s waxing poetry about his enemy’s eyes while lying in a mixture of mud and guts and bodily fluids he doesn’t want to consider too closely. He ascribes it to the blood loss.

Either way, the Angel’s eyes are deep and intelligent, and scrutinising him. They’re flitting over Derek’s broken body, quick and clinical, assessing the damage, focused as if he is trying to solve a puzzle. Derek thinks that he’s probably never seen one of his enemies up close, at least not whilst still alive, and he feels like he’s been put on a pedestal for exhibition or maybe being used for scientific research.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice croaky and dark, although not as menacing as he wants it to be. He knows exactly what the boy is waiting for, knows that he’s being used to satisfy the Angel’s curiosity, and that’s kind of more humiliating than lying half naked in a pool of your own blood, tired and defeated and almost helpless. He just wants the boy to get on with it. The pain is starting to become overwhelming, and his arm feels as if it’s on fire, and he just wants it to end.

(He’s still clamping his hand on his wounds to stop the blood from seeping out. He still doesn’t know why.)

The Angel’s eyes snap up to his face, looking startled and confused. “Huh?”

“Just kill me already,” Derek bites out through clenched teeth. “You won’t get me alive.”

The Angel goes from surprised to this incomprehensible almost-saddened look again, only to settle on quirking his lips into a wry smile. “Yeah, you’re not looking so good, dude, I think that’s a good possibility without me doing anything.”

He’s right, Derek can feel it; if this boy picks him up now to get him to their fortress he will probably die on the way. That’s...kind of comforting, but not really. “So what, you’re gonna save yourself the trouble?”

“You’re awfully eager to die, are you?” The Angel frowns. “I myself prefer the more... aliver scales, you know? I hear death is terribly dull and boring.”

His tone is light and the words leave his mouth almost at a mile an hour. The gentle teasing should make Derek want to rip his throat out even more – and maybe he could do that now, with one last desperate surge upwards, for the boy has slowly crouched closer and is leaning over him a little – but instead Derek hears himself huff out a little breath of annoyance and amusement alike, and feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Dull sounds good right now,” he says, and really, after a lifetime of fighting and running and more fighting, of pain and anger and self-hatred and desperation, it does. “Maybe I can catch up on my reading.”

That startles a laugh out of the Angel, clear and full of mirth and disbelief. He bites his tongue quickly and cuts off the sound, looking somewhat guilty, and Derek feels an illogical surge of _desire_ wash over him, accompanied by an even more illogical feeling of loss. It’s the only nice sound he’s heard in three days, since the battle started, and he finds himself longing to hear that sound again.

Clearly he’s losing his mind along with all the blood in his veins.

The Angel is looking at him again like he wants to ascertain whether or not one of the Fallen has a soul within his body or not. “You’re not healing.”

He’s stating the obvious, and Derek tells him so.

The boy rolls his eyes. “Yes, but why-“

“Aconite.” He has no reason to tell the Angel this. He has no idea why he was asking in the first place. Why would the Angel care whether he’s healing or not? _Scientific interest_ , his brain supplies, but there is something else, something akin to worry in the boy’s voice that Derek’s probably just imagining.

“Ah.” He looks contemplative and almost endearingly excited. “You’re one of the wolves, then?”

Derek nods curtly. He gets the distinct feeling he’ll be asked a load of interested and inappropriate questions if he doesn’t say anything, so he blinks until the fog that’s starting to make his vision go bleary disappears and tries to gather his thoughts. It’s more difficult than it should be. He must be closer to death than he’d realised. A quick glance at his arm tells him that the infection hasn’t spread far, but his body is weak and not healing fast enough.

“I have until the poison reaches my heart,” he says, “or until I bleed out completely, whichever comes first.” His tongue feels heavy, heavier than it’s ever been, and it’s taxing, forming the words. He doesn’t know why he bothers. “I suspect the latter.”

He wonders why the boy is here. Will he try to get information out of him before he dies? Is he eager to see his first enemy die up close? Is he trying, for reason Derek couldn’t possibly fathom, to comfort him? Or does he want to taunt him in these last moments? He doesn’t think so, strangely enough. His voice is too soft for that, too kind.

It reminds him of Laura’s voice, gentle and teasing and always so warm.

God, Laura. Laura will kill him for dying here.

He doesn’t notice he’s said that out loud until he hears another amused snort above him. He squints. The Angel is looking torn between laughter and sorrow and...something else, something darker.

“I’m pretty sure you have to be alive to be killed,” the Angel remarks, smart-ass that he obviously is, “unless someone wants to kill you deader than dead.”

“You’d be surprised,” Derek tells him. “My sister is pretty fierce. She could pull it off. She would revive me just to rip my head off for dying.”

There’s another laugh. It’s just as beautiful as the first, if somewhat strangled. “That would be counterproductive, dude.” Then he grows serious. “Your sister?”

Derek nods. It’s kind of nice, he thinks, having someone to talk to while dying, especially someone as warm as the Angel. And damn, he’s beautiful, as radiant as the sun, with skin as pale as the moon. It shines through the small tears in his tunic, makes him look almost purer than anything Derek’s ever laid his eyes upon. He isn’t as soft as Derek initially thought, though, lithe muscles moving under his skin as he shifts his stance with not yet perfected grace. He’s not bulky, but Derek bets that he’s swift as the sound and far stronger than any opponent would expect. He smells of innocence and sunlight and clouds, of excitement and dew and musk and salt and love.

He’d known Angels are beautiful – he’s seen many of them after all, graceful even in death and as deadly as can be – but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen any Angel as beautiful as this one.

He wishes he could touch him.

While he’s watching the Angel, something changes in the atmosphere. He looks hesitant at first, then thoughtful, and then a quiet determination settles on his features. He unsheathes his sword, and for a second Derek thinks _this is it, finally, this is the end,_ relieved despite his surprise. Then he watches with wide eyes as the Angel cuts off a strip of his tunic with a swift, precise movement, and then another one, before flinging the sword aside carelessly, yanking Derek’s hand away from the wound on his stomach and pressing a bundle of cloth onto it.

The pain is sharp and stingy, cutting through the layers of the dulled, constant pain he’s been enduring for a while now. Derek clamps his teeth down on his lower lip to keep every sound in.

The Angel places Derek’s hand on the cloth again. “Keep pressure on that,” he orders.

Derek blinks at him, because he doesn’t understand what the boy is doing. Usually he would assume that he’s trying to save his life only to bring him to their fortress where they can torture and interrogate him and he’d protest and slash his own body with his claws, but the logical way of going about trying to get him to the Angels’ kingdom would be to call for assistance. The boy isn’t calling for anyone. In fact, he’s looking around almost anxiously, checking that no one is watching before hauling Derek’s other arm around his shoulder and lifting him up until he can slip his right arm around Derek’s waist.

“Little help here?” he asks, but when he gets an eyeful of Derek’s torn wings he snaps his mouth shut, looking remorseful and almost like he’s gonna be sick. “...or not. Okay. Don’t struggle, and don’t make a sound, okay?”

“What are you doing?” Derek asks weakly. He’s so tired. The Angel’s throat is right next to him, pale and perfect, and he can see the way the blood surges through his body with a steady rhythm at the pulse point. He could kill this boy in a second flat, still, but he’s so, so tired, and he thinks that he doesn’t want to move at all. Everything hurts, and the Angel’s shoulder seems like a good place to rest his head.

“I’m making sure there’s enough of your ass still alive for your sister to kick when she comes looking for you,” he replies. Derek tenses, alarmed, thinking _no, no, no, you can’t use me as a trap for Laura, you can’t_. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the Angel wouldn’t show someone like him any compassion, and he wants to push away, but he can’t. The Angel is spreading his wings. “Now hush, or we’ll both be dead if any of the others see us. It’s okay. I’m gonna get you someplace safe.”

Derek thinks that maybe he whimpers when his knees give out under him, but the Angel’s grip on him tightens. With one strong flap of the wings, they’re pushing off the ground, rising higher and higher, and everything else just falls away.

The fresh air on his face is a blessing. If he’s dying with a gust of wind ruffling his feathers instead of lying in the dirt, then it’s a better death than he could have hoped for, and Derek wants to sob with gratitude. He could let go right now and be dead before he hits the ground again, and feeling the wind and sun on his feather again, despite the cold bite of the air, he wants to do just that.

“Hold on, okay? Just a little longer.”

The voice is calling him back from the edge of darkness, where his fingers have started loosening and almost been letting the cloth, now tinted red with his blood, slip through his fingers. The body beside him is warm and comfortable. Derek wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, and be done with it, but the voice is almost pleading right now, and it doesn’t leave room for objections, so he obliges and holds on, trying to push the night away as it closes in.

∞

He opens his eyes to find himself in a dimly lit cave, lying on the cold and uncomfortable stone floor. Derek frowns, because he doesn’t remember this place, doesn’t remember how he got here until-

Until another sharp, burning pain shoots through his lower body.

This time, Derek doesn’t quite manage to hold in the scream.

“Sorry, sorry,” someone above him scrambles. Warm hands glide over his skin in a soothing gesture that manages to make some of the pain ebb away. “But I don’t know if I can use any of our usual stuff on you without hurting you and I – by God, can’t you lie still? – and I had to disinfect the wound and close it.”

Derek focuses on breathing. For something so primary, it proves to be quite a feat.

“On the plus side, it looks like your bowels have given up their attempt to scramble away from you. That’s good, by the way, because I didn’t feel like arranging your intestines on the floor in an artsy manner.”

He dares a quick glance at his own body, and finds, to his surprise, that the deep gash on his stomach has almost completely vanished under a thin line of dark-red scab. It looks like nothing but a scratch now. If not for the wolfsbane in his system, this kind of wound would have healed in two seconds flat.

He knows the boy hasn’t done anything about the wolfsbane yet, because his right arm is still on fire from within. The rapid blood loss has bought him some time – there’s not enough liquid in his veins for the poison to spread more quickly – but it can’t be long now. The Angel seems to know that as well.

“Dammit, I- okay, big guy, I don’t have wolfsbane on me. I’ll just...I’ll search for some on the field and then come straight back, okay? It won’t take long, I promise, I’ll be back before you notice I was gone in the first place. Hey, don’t die on me while I’m away, okay? Dammit, you need to stay awake!”

But consciousness is already slipping away from him again, and his last cognisant thought it that he wishes the Angel would stay at his side so he won’t die completely alone in the dark and cold.

∞

When he blinks his eyes open again, it’s a surprise. His memories are faded and dizzy, as is the world above him. The only thing that’s sharp, that he is acutely aware of, is the utter absence of pain.

There’s no roof above him anymore, just the washed out night sky, the light of the stars slowly growing dimmer with the breaking dawn. All he can hear is the soft murmur of the wind against the stones and the sporadic singing of a few birds in the distance, but the solitude doesn’t bother him. He’s feeling more at peace than he has since his family burned.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. _So this is what death is like._

 It figures it would all have been a hallucination, induced by the blood loss and the poison in his veins. In fact, this makes a lot more sense than the echo of a young face before his eyes and the sensation of being lifted up in the air, the vague recollection he has of white wings and amber eyes and a laugh like a melody. Of course this never happened. It was all in his head. No Angel would ever rescue one of his kind; that would be preposterous.

“Excuse me,” a voice from somewhere to his left chimes in, sounding a little indignant, “I know I’m the stuff as dreams are made on, but I’m actually totally real.”

 Derek sits up with a start and whips his head around. Sure enough, not even ten feet to his left the Angel is perched on the ruin of a column. His instincts tell him to leap up and attack, but the moment he tries to move his wings a sharp pain rips through him, and he staggers and falls before he’s even managed to get completely vertical.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, _don’t_ _do_ _that_!” the Angel exclaims and, in a blur of a movement, jumps and lands in front of him, grabbing Derek’s shoulder and stabilising him. “I’d say it’s a little early for that, don’t you think?”

“I – you,” Derek says stupidly. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. His mind is reeling and spinning so much he feels shaky and nauseous again. Everything sort of splinters and his thoughts scatter. He wants to ask a million questions, like _why are you helping me,_ or _why are you not afraid to stand so close to me, with your neck just a few inches away from my sharp teeth, are you_ crazy, but he seems to have forgotten how to form words. The only thing that he remembers clearly is what his senses latch onto, and he knows instinctively that he has to revel in what he finds: the feeling of a warm, solid body against his, the smell of this boy that is so uniquely breathtaking that Derek knows he could recognise it anywhere.

Something shifts inside him, clicks into place, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle being added, something so elementary that he doesn’t know how he managed to live without it.

It would be great if the realisation wasn’t punching him in the gut that he is clinging to one of his enemies.

“Yes, I saved your little wolfy ass. Which you should totally thank me for. But seriously, don’t do that again, you’re undoing all my hard work,” he chides and eases Derek back onto the ground.

“I-“ Derek frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s there not to understand?” the Angel scoffs. “You’re injured. Frolicking around tends to not help the healing process. Rest is the magic word.”

“No,” Derek says, “that’s not what I meant. Why are you helping me?”

The Angel is silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, shrugging half-heartedly. “Maybe it was just a slow Thursday and I had nothing better to do.”

He sounds so nonchalant that Derek almost believes him, but he isn’t stupid. He notices the hesitation, the stutter of his heartbeat. “You’re lying,” he accuses.

The boy looks as if he slapped him in the face. “I didn’t-“

“Yes. You did.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “Maybe I just think it’s none of your business.”

Derek raises his eyebrows at him, because really? He’s at the receiving end of the Angel’s treatment, so that definitely makes it his business.

“If you pulled the stitches, it’s your own fault,” the Angel says, ignoring his sceptical look and leaning forward to inspect Derek’s wings. When he reaches out to touch them, Derek flinches. The Angel stops immediately, hand hovering a few inches over them. “It’s okay,” he says soothingly, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to check how well they’ve healed. They were pretty messed up, you know? Well, they still are. I cleaned the wound and stitched you up the best I could, but you know that wing injuries are a pain in the ass, they take so much longer to heal and they get infected so easily...” he trails off, giving Derek an expectant look.

Derek grits his teeth and nods curtly. He’s never let anyone but members of his family touch his wings, not once, but he’s at the mercy of this Angel anyway; resisting would be pointless. And something inside him tells him that he can allow it, that it’ll be okay.

He inhales sharply when he feels fingers prodding gently at one of the wounds, but it doesn’t hurt as much as he expected. He casts a tentative glance down his body and finds that there is not a single mark on it, not the slightest hint of a scar where is stomach was ripped open, no hole in his arm where an arrow pierced through the flesh. It’s just the way it should be. He marvels a little at that.

The Angel notices his look, and quirks his lips. “It was a pretty close call, in case you’re wondering. I almost didn’t get back with the wolfsbane in time. Also, I have to admit, it was kinda fascinating how fast you healed after that.” He tilts his head. “Not much I could do about your wings, though,” he says, an edge of sorrow in his voice. “They’ll take time to heal.”

To be honest, Derek doesn’t even really dare to look at them, afraid of what he’ll find. They had literally been ripped to shreds on the battlefield just before he took the wolfsbane arrow and went down. He doesn’t want to think about the likelihood that he will never fly again.

He swallows heavily, and pushes the notion away, into the farthest corner of his head. “How long was I unconscious?” he asks instead.

“One day and two nights. Good thing you woke up now; if I stayed here any longer my dad would start to worry.”

“You’ve been here the entire time?” Derek asks incredulously.

“Well, no, I had to go get some new ointment – seriously, I’ve never used as much on a single person – and check on my dad, but aside from that, yeah. I couldn’t leave you alone, now could I? I mean, I wanted to hide you in the cave I first brought you to, but you kept screaming and tossing and turning in your sleep. That would’ve attracted attention at some point, so I moved you outside. You slept much more calmly here, but I had to keep watch anyway.”

“I-“ Derek’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Thank you.”

Another quick smile. “You’re welcome.”

The fingers withdraw from the feathers of his wings and Derek shudders. He should feel relieved, but instead he misses the contact, the gentleness, the warmth, and he has to suppress the urge to lift his wings until they’re fitted against the Angel’s hand again. It’s worrying. In his culture, there are only two scenarios in which one would touch another person’s wings; one positive and the epitomisation of intimacy and trust, the other bloody and brutal and vicious. This should fit into neither category, but with the proximity of their bodies and their hearts beating almost in sync, the situation feels strangely intimate and way more natural than it should.

He quickly looks away, avoids the Angel’s eyes. Instead, he focuses on the smoke rising in the distance. The wind isn’t carrying the scent of death and destruction their way, luckily, but he knows that behind the mountains, just out of eyeshot, is where the grassland has been turned from green to dark red and black and grey.

“Have they allowed us to collect our own yet?” he asks.

“Yeah, your people have until the some comes up.”

Derek tenses, and tries to sit up again.

“Hey! Didn’t you listen to what I said at all? No moving around.”

“You have to let me go.”

The Angel stares. “Are you _crazy?_ You can’t fly like that, what would you even-“

“If they don’t find my body on the field,” Derek interrupts him, “then they will assume your people either took me hostage or desecrated my body. And you don’t want to find out what happens then. My uncle Peter will use this as an excuse to triple the attacks on your cities, and to convince every last one of us to never show any mercy again. Perhaps Laura will come looking for me in the hope that I got away somehow, but if she finds you with me...”

“Oh shit.” The Angel’s eyes widen. “You – I didn’t make that connection before. One of the werewolves, with a sister named Laura... you’re one of the Hale clan, aren’t you? Of course you are. You must be Derek, then.”

Derek had hoped to keep his identity a secret. Alas, it can’t be helped now. “Regretting your decision to not let me die now?” he asks wryly. “Or, better yet, drag me to your fortress?” It would’ve been a good catch: Derek Hale, nephew of the leader of the Fallen. The Angel would have been held in high glory for the rest of his life.

“No.”

Derek stares at him, gobsmacked. There’s no lie in his voice,  just sincerity and the same quiet determination that he saw on his features when he decided to lift Derek up and carry him away from the battlefield. Derek doesn’t know what to do with the surprise and gratitude and shame clenching up his insides – shame for making such an assumption, shame because he knows it’s what he would’ve done – and he looks away, can’t bear to look at the boy’s brightness anymore. He’s never felt so out of his depths, has never felt so unworthy of someone’s effort before, not even of the affection that Laura shows him despite him being responsible for their family’s death.

For the life of him, Derek doesn’t know why the boy is doing this. He thinks, somewhat bitterly, that this is everything an Angel is supposed to be, and everything they usually aren’t. Everything that he himself will never be.

He swallows. “You should go,” he says.

The least he can do is make sure the Angel doesn’t get hurt for his trouble.

“Why?”

“If I can’t move, then I’ll have to call for my sister. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me when she shows up; I can’t guarantee she’ll stop to ask questions before ripping you to pieces.”

“Nice.” The Angel laughs. “Protective and impulsive, is she?”

“Interesting choice of words,” Derek says levelly. “Most of your kind would have gone with something far less flattering.”

“Like?”

“Savage. Animal. Barbarous. Monstrous. Take your pick.” 

The Angel fiddles with a thread of his tunic, refusing to look at him. “Not every one of us believes you’re monsters, you know.” He licks his lips, fidgets. He’s radiating nervousness for the first time, but when Derek thinks about it he realises it’s always been there, the edginess, the restless energy, sitting just underneath his skin. “I...there was this boy I grew up with. He was my best friend, like a brother. We were always together. Like, really, _all_ _the time_. Not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but not half as dumb as he sometimes pretended to be and the genuinely kindest person I’ve ever met.”

He stops, and Derek waits, patiently. He has a feeling this is important, a crucial piece of information he needs to figure this boy out.

“About half a year ago, he walked into an ambush. It was stupid of us, really, to sneak out in the middle of the night and go traipsing in the woods near your territories. I got away. He didn’t. He wasn’t killed though, he just got bitten.” His face twists into an ugly grimace. “Might have just as well been killed. We tried to hide it, but of course that didn’t work out so well during the full moon. They would’ve killed him. Almost got him, too, after they found out. I barely managed to get him out of the city before his girlfriend’s family kicked in the doors.” He looks angry now, and bitter, and kicks a stone to the side. It’s the first time he’s acting as young as he is. Then again, Angels are never really young, and neither are the Fallen.

“They didn’t even care that he’d never hurt anyone. Well, okay, he tried to attack me, but...he wasn’t evil, okay? He was never...and they would’ve killed him. So he turns into something furry once a month and his wings turn black, so what? It didn’t make him a bad person. And it’s not just him, there’s so many, Angels my age who were just at the wrong place at the wrong time and they get kicked out or executed and it’s-” He breaks off his rant there, as if he’s scared of what he’ll say if he goes on, his hands clenched into fists.    

Derek just sits and watches him in silence. The story isn’t new to him; it’s happened more frequently lately, and it’ll keep happening. Ever since his uncle found a way to turn Angels into one of them, he’s resorted to guerrilla techniques; the two peoples are essentially equal when it comes to strength, and battles are just as often won as they are lost. But this, this is a way of decimating the Angels’ numbers and increasing their own simultaneously, and it serves well to demoralise their enemies.

Of course, the newly turned are often not very willing to serve under them, but in the end, they hardly have a choice, and the Angels are playing into their hands with their attitude towards those who have been bitten. The Angels who get bitten are usually young and easily frustrated, and once they accept that there is nothing left for them on the light side, that they have been cast out and will never be allowed back, they normally start affiliating themselves to the Fallen. It’s part instinct – especially with the wolves, who always look for a pack – and part anger and desperation, combined with the lack of alternatives. Angels are trained to be soldiers from a young age. And what’s a soldier without a cause to fight for?

“What was his name?” Derek asks, startling both himself and the Angel.

The boy clears his throat. “Scott,” he says quietly. “Scott McCall.”

Derek sighs. Somehow, he is not surprised. The description fits him perfectly: the boy who still refuses to fight alongside them, to fight against his own kin, regardless of how close he has gotten to some of the other Fallen, like Isaac, who follows him around like a lost puppy. Out of all the recently turned that have joined their ranks, Scott is the one who bemoans the loss of his past life the most, longing for his girlfriend, his family and his friends. It’s often irritating and annoying, and Derek usually tries to tune him out, unable to understand why he couldn’t let go of what he’s lost and move on.

Now Derek is starting to see why.  

“You must be Stiles,” he says. It’s the second most frequently mentioned name in Scott’s rants – the first, of course, being Allison.

The Angel gasps and scrambles to his feet, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You know Scott?”

Derek just grunts, because _duh._ Obviously.

“Is...is he okay?”

“He was the last time I saw him.” Derek shrugs. “He doesn’t fight, so unless he’s tripped over some roots or flown against a mountain range because he was too busy rhapsodising his ex-girlfriend’s perfection he should be just fine.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh.

A wave of happiness and relief washes over Derek, smacking him right in the face, only tinged with the tiniest hint of lingering sadness. These aren’t his emotions, they’re Stiles’, but they claw their way into him and settle there, as if they plan on becoming his own and taking his breath away. He’s never experienced anything like this, but he isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what is happening.

But it can’t happen. Not ever. An almost palpable terror sinks low in his heart, and he forces away the premonitions.

“You should leave now,” he says brusquely.

Stiles opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. He looks vaguely disappointed. “I...okay. Yeah, sure.” He straightens. “Will you...?”

“Yes,” Derek grinds out.

“Thanks,” Stiles says quietly. And then, just before he takes flight: “Good luck.”

Derek waits until Stiles has put a sufficient distance between him and Derek, and then lets out a long, pained howl.

It takes Laura less than ten minutes to find him. Needless to say, when she sees his wings, she _flips._  

∞

Laura is glaring at him from the other side of the room, her face uncharacteristically serious. Derek knows that she is mostly just concerned, worried, but she’s also furious because Derek didn’t call for help earlier. She even glowers at Deaton, who is inspecting the damage done to Derek’s wings with his usual placidness, but that might be more due to the fact that Derek flinches violently every time anyone comes near his wings – including his sister.

It’s stupid; he knows, logically, that he can trust Deaton, who’s been a Healer for all his life, who’s been helping his family for as long as Derek can remember, and he has no more reason to be afraid of him than of Laura. Still, every instinct tells him to recoil. Which would be far less worrying if he hadn’t been okay with an Angel touching his wings a couple of hours ago.

“How did you get away?” Laura asks, her voice tight. “There’s no way you could’ve flown that far with the state of your wings.”

Derek presses his lips into a tight line. He’s not sure she’d believe him if he told her the truth, and he thinks that maybe it’s safer for everyone to keep the details of his rescue in the dark. Hatred of the Angels runs deep in their culture, and he knows that more than a few of the Fallen would look at him in disdain for accepting the help of one of their enemies. His sister isn’t prejudiced like the rest of them, but she’s bitter even at the best of times, although she hardly lets it show. He thinks, darkly, that she wouldn’t mind an Angel helping him, but there was more to it, more to _Stiles,_ and he can never tell her.

“Someone carried me,” he says, because it’s not a lie, exactly, it’s just lying by omission and his sister won’t be able to tell.

“Who?”

“Never met him before.”

“And then he just left you there?”

“I told him to go.”

“Dammit, Derek, your blood was all over the battlefield, I smelled it, I _saw_ it, okay, you must’ve nearly bled out there, do you have any idea how-“ Laura breaks off abruptly, but he knows how that sentence would’ve ended. _Do you have any idea how scared I was?_

It’s always there, the fear of losing the last person you hold dear. It’s also something they never talk about.

“I smelled the wolfsbane, too.”

Derek attempts an indifferent shrug. “I healed. It’s not a big deal.”

“Well,” Deaton says before Laura can flare up again, “whoever it was that helped you, he did an excellent job.”

“Did he?” Derek is almost tempted to turn around and examine the damage and the healing process himself, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’d gotten a good look at the remains of his wings when Laura hoisted him up and carried him all the way back to their territory, and he’d felt like throwing up. The paste-like salve that Stiles smeared all over his wings hadn’t done anything to improve the appearance. Quite the contrary. It had looked as if his wings were _moulding_.

Truth be told, he doesn’t think there’s much left to fix.

“Yes, he did indeed. The wounds aren’t infected, they’re already scabbing over and healing. It will take a while, of course, for the torn muscles and tendons to heal, more so than the superficial wounds, but I’m positive that, if you make sure not to use them for a couple of months, you’ll be able to fly again just the way you used to. Naturally, in that time your muscles will atrophy, and you will need to carefully build up to using them again, but the quick attention to your injuries has most likely been your saving grace.” Deaton smiles a little.

Derek swallows, and tries not to think about that too much. Instead, his mind focuses on the vaguely hopefulness that fills him. Laura has taken to teasing him about optimism not being part of his vocabulary, and it’s true that he _does_ tend to prepare for the worst case scenario, but more improbable things have happened in the last days. Things he would’ve considered impossible, even. Like an Angel saving the life of his mortal enemy, seemingly without an ulterior motive.

He wonders, idly, what Stiles might be doing now. Whether he regrets what he did. How he’s supposed to relay a message to Scott without anyone finding out what happened. Whether he can trust Laura with this, or whether it’ll be just another piece of himself that he’ll lock away and carefully hide from her forever.

∞

“Wow, you’re a _wreck_.”

“Thanks, Scott,” Derek says dryly, resisting the urge to snarl at him or at least hit him over the head. He isn’t good at controlling his temper, but he’s trying, especially when Isaac’s around. The boy still doesn’t respond too well to violence when it’s directed at him or his friends, although he’s been getting ready to be sent off to battle.

Derek throws the ragtag bunch of young Fallen a slightly irritable look. He’s _supposed_ to be resting. He’s also bored out of his mind, but he’s not going to admit that he’s secretly thrilled to see them here. He’d taken over their training a couple of months ago, and it hadn’t been easy at first. They all clashed, didn’t work well together as a team. He knows they used to either despise or fear him, but they’ve been making slow but noticeable progress lately. Them caring enough to show up at his sickbed is proof of that.

 “What are you doing here?” he asks gruffly. They probably see through his act, but he has a reputation to uphold.

“As if that isn’t obvious.” Erica rolls her eyes in a perfectly practiced gesture of exasperation and wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. You _stink._ That’s disgusting.”

Derek kind of wants to strangle her a little, but that’s his default impulse when one of them is behaving like an obnoxious brat (which is always), and he’s gotten good at controlling his urges. “You can always leave.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, and extends a hand to prod at his wings. He flinches before she can touch them and whirls around to roar at her, his eyes flashing and his canines elongating, and she only just manages to jump back before he rips her hand off. “Sorry,” she gasps. “I didn’t-“

A long, tense silence follows the scene. None of them dares coming within a five feet radius again.

“My best friend’s mother used to make a salve like that one,” Scott says, and Derek decides it’s wiser not to comment on that at all. “You’d always smell like you were rotting, but it’s, like, magic or something. I swear, you’d put it on a wound and the next day it would be gone.”

“Dude,” Jackson says, annoyed, “we can heal within _minutes_.”

“Yeah, but not _before_.”

Jackson grunts. “Well, so we know how Stilinski made it to adolescence despite being such a spazz. So what? I don’t think that ick,” he gestures in Derek’s general direction, “will be solved with a bit of magic green pulp.”

Derek ignores the jab and instead files away every piece of information about Stiles. He thinks he’s heard the family name before, but he can’t place it yet. Memories of the time before the war are fuzzy and distant at best, and he’d never been all that sociable to begin with. He’d never spent much time with people outside his family, never paid much attention to gossip. Now that an inexplicable curiosity fills him, he wishes he had taken an interest back then.

“Has Deaton said anything about how long it’ll take until you’re fully healed?” Boyd’s voice, as always, is calm and considerate.

“No.” Derek doesn’t mention that there’s still a distinct possibility that he might be a cripple. “I’ll arrange for someone to take over your training. I’ll ask Laura about it tomorrow.”

There’s no way he can do the exercises with them in the state he’s in, and the sooner they get another Fallen to train them the better. Truth be told, he’s not entirely comfortable with the thought of anyone else taking care of them. He used to complain about how they always drive him insane – and Hell knows, they do, with their constant bickering and their unwillingness to follow orders – but he realises he will miss it, miss them. Maybe he can talk Laura into supervising their training herself; he doesn’t think he’d trust anyone else with them. Which is rich, coming from him, because he had zero experience in this field when he became their Alpha, and most of the time he still feels like he has no idea what he’s even doing – he certainly won’t win any medals for his methods – but they have grown on him, and he needs to make sure they’re taken care of by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to jump in front of a bullet for them.

Isaac furrows his brows in confusion. “What?”

Derek just looks at him, then at his wings, then back at Isaac.

“Ahaha, no,” Erica says sharply. “No way. No offense, your sister is _awesome_ , but no. And if she refuses to do it, they’ll split us up, and that’s not gonna happen. Anyway, you’ll need a task to occupy yourself. You’re not going to hide away in here and spend your time brooding miserably. We know enough of the basics that you don’t have to walk us through every little step of every manoeuvre.”

“Yeah,” Jackson agrees. “You can do it.”

“After all, all you have to do is watch us,” Boyd says, “and give orders once in a while. I know you consider talking a strenuous exercise, but I think you’ll manage.”

Derek stares at them, a little overwhelmed, and at a loss for words.

“I’ll think about it,” he says eventually, but he knows that he’ll do it even if Deaton forbids it. Because these teenagers, his pack, essentially, want him. No one has ever genuinely wanted Derek around, apart from his family. He’d believed Kate wanted him, but believing that ended up being the worst thing he ever did, and since then he’s made an effort to make everyone stay away from him. Yet here they are, demanding he stay with them.

His wings are aching, he is tired to the bone, and he hasn’t felt that good in a long time.

The teenagers continue their bickering and Derek, usually prone to telling them to shut up after a couple of minutes max lets them, just leans back a little and listens to them, trying not to let his contentment bleed through too much. Eventually, they turn to leave after remembering that Derek is supposed to be resting. As Erica ushers them all out, Derek grabs Scott’s arm and holds him back.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly.

Scott’s face crunches up in a mixture of curiosity, reluctance and worry. “What is it?”

“I want you to be there at the next training session. Don’t!” he says when Scott opens his mouth to protest. “I know you don’t want to fight against your former friends and prefer spending your time with Deaton. And you’re right, that’s important, and I’m not saying you should stop. We always need more Healers. But you also need to learn how to defend yourself properly, because not every Angel is going to have the same attitude you have, and I don’t want to see you get killed. And I’ll need your assistance training them. _They_ need your assistance.”

Scott just looks at him for a moment before he nods and smiles. “I think that’s the longest speech you’ve ever given. And it’s the first time you actually asked nicely,” he adds. “Did you get hit over the head?”

“Very funny.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Derek parrots, surprised. He didn’t expect Scott to agree that easily. Their relationship has always been a little strained, and that hasn’t been entirely to blame on Derek. Scott can be as stubborn as a mule when he wants to. Derek thinks it’s mostly concern for his friends among the Fallen that has him agreeing now, not sudden sympathy with Derek; although Derek has noticed that Scott had been staring at his injured wings with a quiet, thoughtful expression that he’d never seen on him before.

“Okay. I’ll help you. Just promise me not to go and try to turn me into a soldier.”

“I’m not going to force you to draw a sword, Scott,” Derek sighs. “I could’ve done that a long time ago, if I’d wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

Derek gives him a look. “I’m not like my uncle.”

Scott lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” And then, almost inaudibly: “Thanks.”

“Tomorrow at ten. Don’t be late.”

He watches Scott’s retreating back and doesn’t know how to feel about wasting a perfect opportunity to tell him about Stiles. It’s the smart thing, to keep this from him, but it doesn’t feel right. On the one hand, an irrational rush of jealousy courses through him at the mere thought of telling someone, anyone, about what Stiles did for him; like it’s a precious memory that is not to be shared. On the other hand he wants to tell Scott, he does, not only because he knows how much it would mean to him, but also because he promised Stiles.

He kind of hates his somehow still existing morals for feeling obliged to hold a promise he gave to an enemy. He shouldn’t care so much; it’s not like Stiles will ever find out. He tells himself that it’s not important.

What’s important is that Scott would definitely do stupid, stupid things if he knew. The boy has always been ridiculously hopeful that one day, preferably in the near future, the war will end, that he’ll be accepted back in the Angels’ ranks and have his happily ever after with Allison. The only thing keeping him here, with a wobbling, labile affiliation to the Fallen, is that they’re the only option for him if he wants to stay alive, since there has been no sign of the hostilities ceasing. The moment he tells Scott that Stiles not only still thinks of him as his best friend but was also willing to save the life of a random enemy, Scott will most likely come to the conviction that it’s not an isolated case of goodwill but a change of attitude affecting the entire Angel population; that Allison will take him back.

He’ll be racing back and get himself ripped to pieces in no time.

Derek mulls over it and pointedly ignores the little voice in the back of his head telling him that there are more important things to worry about, like pondering why the hell Stiles’ emotions had affected him like that, but he doesn’t want to freak out, thank you very much. He cannot deal with this. Not now. Possibly not ever.

He doesn’t even realise how much time has passes until Laura stalks into his room and he looks up to find that the sky outside is growing darker.

“I can’t take five steps without someone asking me about you,” she complains in lieu of a greeting. “I never knew you were so popular.”

Derek snorts. He isn’t. They’re interested in him because he’s the General’s nephew and has a pretty face. They’re all just gossip mongers, the lot of them.

“Uncle Peter sends his love.”

“I’m sure he does,” Derek retorts dryly. “While secretly mourning the missed chance of getting the armies really riled up.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You know it’s true.” He attempts a shrug and winces when the shift of muscles has his right wing brushing up against the wall. He’s too sore all over for the pang of pain to make any big difference, although he does wonder how he’s supposed to sleep if he can’t move an inch without hurting. “Had I died, or at least been permanently maimed, he could’ve used that in his favour. You know how good he’s with words. Sadly, I might yet recover. He won’t be too happy about that.”

“Peter is family,” Laura says tightly.

“I don’t think he’s cared about that in a long time.” Derek tries, and fails, to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Next to him, Laura deflates and drops her head.

“Me neither.”

∞

That night, they curl up next to each other like they haven’t done since the first nights after the fire. Laura edges as close as she can without accidentally hurting him. Derek feels the heat her body gives off, hot like the sun burning down on a desert. It’s almost stifling, but he doesn’t mind much. The Fallen all run a little hotter than Angels, and memories of someone with a gentler, less aggressive body temperature sweeping him into their arms are few and distant. There’s a more recent one, of course, of different arms, and he almost misses their hold on him for a moment. But he’s missed this more: the closeness of his sister, sleeping next to each other, confiding in each other.

They can never go back to what they were before. They still love each other as much as ever, but there’s a rift between them now that separates them that’s not only to blame on their family’s death. It started before that, with lies and secrecy and stupidity, with actions and words that can never be fully forgiven.

Derek wishes he knew how to fix this. Fix them.

From up close, he can see the worried lines around her eyes, the tight edge of her lips. Laura looks exhausted. He lifts his hand and brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

“Do you remember before the war?” he blurts out.

 Laura stiffens under his touch. For a moment, the silence is ringing in his ears. Eventually she nods. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I remember.” Her eyes search his face. “Why are you asking?”

She sounds more curious than put out. They never talk about the past unless they can’t help it. Indulging in the echoes of their parents’ love and their siblings’ laughter is still too painful. Images of happier times flood his mind, and for once, Derek doesn’t block them out: The smell of cherry wood and rosemary. The sound of swift and fleeting footsteps rushing down the corridor and down the stairs. The rustling of feathers in the wind. Sunshine gleaming through the open windows. A wave of pitch-black hair. Laura smacking him over the head playfully. Their father sliding his arms around their mother. His baby brother gurgling with joy, his little sister snuggling up into the small space between his arm and his wing.

So much warmth. So much laughter. So much love.

“Derek?”

He snaps back into reality and realises he hasn’t given her an answer yet. The thing is, he doesn’t know why he asked.

Of course he remembers, if only vaguely, the times when Angels and Fallen lived alongside each other more or less peacefully. Times when it was not impossible, only improbable, that an Angel would fall in love with one of the Fallen and vow to spend eternity with them, like his father had done. His encounter with Stiles and his conversation with Scott have dragged the memories up from where he’d buried them, but thinking about the tiny fraction of peace in a war-ridden world shouldn’t trigger his tongue running away.

“I’m tired,” he says, and doesn’t mean his body. He’s tired of war and hatred and running. “I’m so tired of this.”

Laura smiles a wistful little smile. “I know,” she says, and now it’s her turn to run her fingers through his hair. Derek thinks that he has no right to complain. He might be shouldering the guilt, but she is carrying all the responsibility, and he can see how much it weighs her down. “If mother and father could see us right now, they’d be so disappointed.”

“Don’t,” Derek says, tightening his grip on her. “You were only trying to protect us. You _are_ protecting us.”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding hollow. “But at what cost?”

“We couldn’t have survived on our own,” he tells her, although they probably could have. They could’ve run far away, trying to find somewhere the war didn’t reach. It wouldn’t have made either of them happier. “We had to choose a side.”

Laura swallows. “Every time I cut an Angel’s throat,” she admits, “I see dad.”

Derek honestly doesn’t know how she hasn’t broken yet. Every time he kills an Angel, he sees Kate Argent. That makes it easier. Not better, but a little easier.

They lie in silence for a long time. Derek is on the verge of nodding off when his sister speaks up again. “Do you think there will ever be peace again?”

Derek thinks about their parents, one Fallen, one Angel, who loved each other so much that the disdain everyone else regarded them with didn’t matter. Who, until their dying day, refused to fight in the war.

He thinks about Scott, who refuses to fight against his former people, whose Fall has not altered or diminished his love for an unattainable girl.

He thinks about Stiles, who is still overwhelmingly loyal to his best friend and so angry with the entire situation that he doesn’t mind endangering himself to save the life of someone he is supposed to kill. He thinks about Stiles’ fingertips ghosting over the ridge of his wing and something shifting and settling inside him.

He thinks about Peter and his all-consuming hatred that was born the day everything he loved burned to ashes, thinks about the Argents and their bone-deep hatred of the Fallen that’s been defining them for centuries.

“I don’t know,” he answers.

Two days ago, his answer would have been no.

∞


	2. Chapter 2

∞

Life goes on. Derek doesn’t think about it, because that’s how he deals best with everything that has the potential to signify the kind of trouble that turns his life upside down until the strategy, inevitably, comes back to bite him in the ass. The little nagging voice in the back of his head tells him that pretending nothing happened aside from Stiles saving his life that day is going to be one of those things, but in the course of his life, he’s gotten good at ignoring it.

Instead, he focuses on the things that are right in front of him and need handling.

He trains his little ragtag group of teenagers; he teaches Scott how to be stealthy and Isaac how to rely on his senses, teaches Erica to think before she attacks and Jackson how to fully control the shift. He has to make Laura show Boyd how to fly manoeuvres that increase his speed and agility, but it works surprisingly well. He even manages, for three long months, to resist the temptation of joining them in the air.

Slowly but surely, he starts exercising again, flexing the muscles in his wings and building them up again, meticulously following the plan Deaton has devised for him.

Four and a half months after the battle, he is allowed to lift himself up in the air for the first time in what seems like eternities. He manages a solid five minutes before he has to land again to avoid dropping out of the air like a stone, and curses nature for making the most vulnerable body part the one that heals the slowest. But he’s _flying_ and his wings are miraculously not warped and twisted and the scars are barely visible beneath the freshly grown back wing coverts, and that’s something he hadn’t even dared to dream of. Holding back isn’t easy, but Deaton drums it into him that overzealousness will ruin all the progress he’s made, so he complies and steadily, cautiously extends the duration and intensity of his training until one day, over half a year after his almost-death, he’s in perfect shape again.  

  “They’ll send you into battle again soon,” Laura says, sitting down next to him and leaning back on her elbows. The months of relative calm have done her good as well, and she sounds wistful and resigned; the happier days are over, and reality will crush them again soon. If Derek is attested a full recovery – and he will be – they will both no longer have any excuse to not be in the front line of every ensuing fight. Erica, Boyd, Isaac and Jackson have made more than enough progress to legitimate their joining the ranks under either Derek’s or Laura’s command. Scott is the only one with a potential way out; if he joins the Healers’ unit, he’ll stay at the sidelines.

“Yeah,” Derek says.

He tries not to be bitter about it. He’s fought the Angels before, there’s no reason for him to not fight them now. Nothing has changed. Except now he’s indebted to one of them, and he still feels he has to pay off his debt.

What’s worse is that he keeps waking up to the echoes of a soft, strong body next to his own, Stiles’ scent in his nose, the flutter of his heartbeat under his fingertips and the rustling of wings in his ears. And a low, quiet ache in the centre of his soul, calling out.  

“Theoretically,” he asks Erica later, “if I wanted to enter Beacon Hills without anyone noticing, where would be the best spot to sneak in?”

Erica blinks at him, surprised. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because you snuck out one night to go looking for us, and you’re not the only one. If you managed to come here without getting caught, then that means there must be some areas in which the patrols aren’t as frequent, areas left practically unguarded.”

“Good deduction,” Erica replies, “but let me repeat the question: _why_ are you asking me that?”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Wow,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder, “you’re awfully eager to get mauled again, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he insists, suppressing a grin at her comment and the memories that come with it. “But there’s something I need to do.”

Erica looks torn between being conflicted and curious for a moment before letting out a long-suffering sigh. “I know you wouldn’t tell me if I asked, so I will just point out that whatever you plan to do is definitely horrendously stupid. But fine. The area behind your old house, actually. The woods there have a security system with holes the size of volcanic craters.” She tilts her head. “If you die, I’m not gonna cry over you. Also, I’ll be setting up camp in your room. It’s so much bigger than mine.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Derek?” Erica calls when he’s almost out the door. “Try not to die.”

His next stop is Deaton, because despite what Erica seems to think, he’s not a suicidal blockhead. He’s stealthy enough to sneak into the Angels’ fortress, but he knows there is no way he will be able to move freely through the city without someone noticing him, even if he goes in the dead of the night.

“Is there a way to temporarily change or cover up the colour of your wings?” he asks, not bothering with a proper greeting. Deaton always looks like he expected him anyway.

In fact, he looks like he expected Derek to ask him that question a long time ago. “You can’t change the colour of your wings. No matter what you try, the black of your feathers will always show trough. But-“ he holds up a finger, nipping Derek’s rising disappointment in the bud, “you can, in a manner of speaking, mask them.”

“How?”

“The glory of magic.” Deaton smiles and starts rummaging through one of the drawers. “The art of illusion is a hard one to master. Luckily, there are some auxiliary means someone who has no experience with magic can rely on.” He straightens and holds out his hand towards Derek, a small silver amulet dangling from his fingers. “Take this.”

Derek takes it. The metal feels cool on his skin. “How does it work?”

“It’s an old rune for deception. As long as you wear it, everyone looking at your wings will be convinced they’re whatever colour you want them to be. Of course,” he continues, “the key to the magic working is, as always, belief. You have to believe this will help with your disguise – or it won’t.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Derek admits. It’s been a long time since he’s believed in anything.

“I think that if your life depends on it, you will find it in you to believe.” Deaton smiles again. “Even so, you need to be careful. Just as you can sense magic, some Angels will be able to detect the glimmer, see through it if they focus hard enough.”

Derek nods and makes a mental note to make sure he’s not seen by anybody if he can help it. He hadn’t planned on roaming the streets of Beacon Hills in full sight anyway. It’s unlikely the Angels will be hyper vigilant in their own territory and expect a Fallen to take a casual stroll though their city, but his face isn’t exactly unknown to them. He _is_ the General’s nephew after all, and even if he and Laura have so far refused to take up high ranking positions in their army, they’ve been on top of the Angels’ hit list since the start. Someone might recognise him.

He isn’t willing to risk that.

The plan is reckless enough as it is. The rational part of his brain tells him that he doesn’t owe Stiles that much, that he doesn’t owe him enough to put his life in danger again. However, the irrational part of his brain is apparently much bigger and smothers all self-preserving instinct.

It’s possible he has lost parts of his sanity forever.

Derek makes a quick calculation in his head. He’ll have to make sure to arrive at the border to the Angel territory well after nightfall. If he leaves now, he can be there within two, maybe two and a half hours. The sun will have long since set by then. Estimating how long it will take him to find one particular Angel in a city as big as Beacon Hills, especially when he has to move with extra caution, is difficult, but he doesn’t plan on spending much time in enemy territory, so he gives himself another two hours for sneaking in, finding Stiles, talking to him and getting the fuck out of dodge. It’s a tight schedule, possibly too tight. If it doesn’t work, though, he’ll at least have the clean conscience of having tried.

“Tell Scott to meet me by the lake at midnight,” he says to Deaton. The Silver Lake is one of the landmarks creating a natural frontier between the lands of Angels and Fallen, with a lot of rocks that can hide you from sight, and it’s bordering on the former Hale property, which makes it the perfect meeting place. “And to make sure no one follows him.”

He slips the amulet over his head, steps out, and spreads his wings.

Derek hasn’t flown for two hours straight since sustaining his injuries, so the flight is more strenuous than he is used to, but it still goes better than he expected. He makes two short breaks, stopping to catch his breath and checking that no one has noticed his departure. He carefully avoids coming anywhere near the patrol posts; Erica and Deaton being in the know is dangerous enough as it is, and he cannot afford the rumours that will inevitably arise if anyone sees him out there.

He carefully doesn’t contemplate the consequences should he be caught: Laura’s disillusioned face. His pack’s confusion. Everyone else’s disgust. Ignorance will at least save everyone from getting punished alongside him.

He makes it to the frontier area without much difficulty. Derek crouches behind some trees and simply listens. He can’t sense another heartbeat nearby. There’s just the relative quietness of the forest, water gurgling and crickets chirring, the occasional shuffle of a rabbit hopping through the foliage covering the earth. Big, dark clouds are rushing across the sky and blacking out the moonlight, making it difficult for anyone without heightened senses to navigate through the brushwood.

Derek takes a deep breath and, as quickly and soundlessly as possible, crosses to the other side. And just like that, his feet stand on his homeland again.

There’s no big revelation, no trumpets and choirs; it’s just earth. It doesn’t smell any different from the soil on the other side of the lake, aside from the lingering scents of Angels versus Fallen. But it feels more familiar, still. He hasn’t come here for over six years, but he still knows every tree, every hill, and every slope. Derek gives the burnt out shell of his family’s house a wild berth, swearing that if he focuses hard enough, he can still smell hot ash and burning flesh in the air.  

He makes his way across the large area in no time, cutting across the old preserve, and reaches the outskirts of Beacon Hills. So far, he hasn’t come near a single Angel, but despite the late hour a surprisingly large number of them are still outside on the streets. He can hear them laughing and chattering away carelessly. They don’t even seem to care – or maybe they just don’t know – about the seriously fatal security breach that is the former Hale property. Crossing into Angel territory had, so far, been ridiculously easy. Any other Fallen would have used that knowledge for their own purposes.

But Derek isn’t here for that, and he doesn’t have any time to waste. Truth be told, he doesn’t know exactly where to start his search. He remembers, more or less, where the Stilinski family used to live, and this place is as good a starting point as any, so he ducks into one of the smaller side alleys and moves swiftly from shadow to shadow, head held down and repeating a silent mantra in his head: _my wings are white. My wings are white._

He really hopes it works. They don’t look any different to him, but then again, he _knows_ what to expect when looking at them.

After about fifteen minutes of zigzagging through the streets, he picks up a familiar scent. Fresh and warm, standing out against the sweeter smells clouding the air.

Stiles.

His heart makes an unwanted leap in his chest, aching with a yearning Derek can’t quite understand. He takes a step around the next corner and freezes when he catches sight of two Angels coming toward him. He’d been so lost in Stiles’ scent for a moment that he hadn’t heard them coming closer, hadn’t realised that they were moving along the same street that he needs to use. Derek desperately wants to slink back into the shadows, but he can’t risk drawing even more attention to himself. The Angels haven’t looked at him outright so far, but they will inevitably notice him if he moves frantically now. He bites down hard on his lower lip and forces his breath into a steady rhythm and tries to walk at an equally steady pace, telling himself that no one else is near, and he does carry his knife. In case things go sour, he’s pretty certain he can overwhelm and kill them before they alarm anyone. He’d like to avoid slaughter, though, so instead he focuses harder on his inner mantra.

One of the Angels glances at him when they’re about fifteen feet away. Derek’s breath catches.

The Angel looks at him with poorly disguised curiosity for a moment, then gives him a greeting nod and turns his attention back to his companion, who is so absorbed in the conversation that he doesn’t acknowledge Derek’s presence. Derek lengthens his strides a little to move past them quickly and turns into the next side alley, leaning heavily against a high wooden fence. He’s, surprisingly enough, not freaking out, but he waits until the Angels’ heartbeats and steps have faded away. When no one else is coming his way, he allows himself a quick look at his wings. There’s a faint shimmer around them, like hot air in the desert, glowing a barely perceptible blue colour.

Huh.

Nevertheless, Derek decides to take a shortcut through the gardens. The houses are either deserted or the Angels are all sleeping; none of the windows are illuminated, and there’s no movement behind the doors or outside. Derek is infinitely grateful for the Stilinski family choosing a quieter area to live in.

Stiles’ scent is getting stronger now, tickling in his nose and presenting a determined force pulling him irrevocably toward him. Derek leaps over another fence and cowers behind a small bush, and watches. The house in front of him isn’t particularly striking, small but well-maintained. It’s definitely built for a small family, but there’s only one heartbeat, quick and strong, mixing with the sound of pages being turned and a person moving about quite a bit. Derek doesn’t need to see the silhouette in the window to know it’s Stiles.

One of the windows is standing half-open, letting the rich autumn breeze in. With one last look to make sure no one is looking, Derek climbs through it.

Stiles is in a chair, his back towards the window, fiddling with a pen and seemingly absorbed in the scroll of parchment before him. He doesn’t even notice his presence until he speaks up.

“Hello, Stiles,” Derek says levelly, and tries to choke down his amusement when the Angel gasps and whips around, all flailing limbs and stuttering heartbeat, stationery flying across the room.

“Holy - “ Stiles cuts himself off and, for the longest moment just stares at him in disbelief, colour draining out of his face and then rushing back in again, colouring his cheeks. The initial spark of fear bleeds into confusion and astonishment. “ _Derek_?” he manages finally, voice coming out gnarled and croaky. “What the- “ he looks around wildly, as if expecting someone to bust through the door any second, and when he continues talking, he obviously makes sure not to raise his voice too much. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, but without animosity.

Derek takes a moment to be impressed by the total lack of fear he displays. It’s almost like it’s normal for him to have a devil unexpectedly show up in his bedroom. Also, to be absolutely honest, Derek still isn’t really sure what he’s doing here, and he isn’t sure he wants to know either, so that’s just another part of his psyche that he refuses to examine any closer. “I didn’t die,” he offers, hesitantly.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “I can see that,” he states rather flatly.

“I-“ Derek pauses. “Thank you.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open again. “Oh my God, did you – you totally did, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“Venture into enemy territory to thank me for saving your life, all the while completely ignoring that you’re in _enemy territory where everyone wants to kill you_ and consequently endangering the ass that you wanted to thank me for saving, oh God, you _idiot_.” Stiles looks like he want to bury his face in his hands and tear his hair out. “Have you spent even one second thinking about what will happen if they find you here?”

He has, but looking at Stiles now, he realises for the first time what this would look like to a bystander: Stiles with an obviously familiar Fallen in his bedroom. He hadn’t taken the consequences for Stiles into consideration should he be detected. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in danger.”

“I’m not worried about me. I can run my mouth a mile an hour and talk myself out of pretty much anything if need be. But if anyone sees you, all my hard work will be nullified. What good is coming here to express your gratitude if you end up dead? How did you even get in he – no, don’t even tell me.” He blinks, alarmed. “You didn’t massacre half the town, did you? I didn’t hear any screams, so...”

Derek is pretty sure this is supposed to be a joke. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says curtly, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t thank you for saving my life by slaughtering your people.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, scrutinising him. Eventually, his gaze drops down to the huge wings curled behind Derek’s back, and he blinks. “...oh,” he says. “A glimmer?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t comment on it earlier.”

“I didn’t notice. They looked the same as the last time we met. Well, minus the blood and the bones sticking out, and, you know, just a whole lot healthier.”

“You- “

“Don’t worry, it should work perfectly fine on anyone who isn’t as good as me at detecting magic, which is basically everyone here. It won’t help much if anyone gets a good look at your face, though. You’re all over the wanted posters and everything.”

He fixes Derek with another look. Derek’s seen that one before, when Stiles was cataloguing the damaged, broken body at his feet, and he knows that he is analysing every detail of his stance, every curve of his wings to see if he is indeed fully healed. “Really, Derek, why are you here?” Stiles asks quietly and sighs. “It’s not that I’m not glad to know you’re alive or that I don’t appreciate you trying to express your gratitude, but frankly, this,” he gestures around in an all-compassing sort of way, “was a stupid-ass thing to do. So why are you here?”

“Come with me,” Derek says. Well. More like blurts out. It’s not the smoothest transition.

Stiles startles. “Uh.” He swallows heavily. “I – what?”

“Come with me,” he repeats, mentally steeling himself. This _is_ a part of why he came here, after all.

Stiles licks his lips, gaze flitting back and forth and settling anywhere but Derek. There’s a tight, nervous edge at the corner of his mouth. “I think we’re at too early a stage of our relationship for me to elope with you.”

Well, Derek _probably_ could have worded it better to prevent misunderstandings. He snorts, because that mental leap is as surprising (and sort of worrying, because seriously, this is what Stiles assumes about him?) as it is amusing.

“Also I feel like I should inform you that I have no intention whatsoever to change sides.“

“Stiles,” Derek says, familiar exasperation bubbling up inside him, along with something that oddly feels like the sting of rejection. “Stop being an idiot. I’m not here to steal you away or convince you to change sides. You don’t have to come. But there’s something  - _someone_ -  I thought you’d like to see.”

The angel scrunches up his nose in confusion. Then, Derek can see the understanding dawn on his face.

“Just come,” Derek says. “Or leave it. Your call.”

Stiles scrambles to his feet. “Are you kidding? Of course I’m coming.” He follows Derek out the window and takes a look around, frowning. “You didn’t bring him here, did you? Please tell me you didn’t bring him here. That would be the height of stupidity.”

Derek snorts again. “I wouldn’t let Scott near a ten mile radius of Beacon Hills if my life depended on it. I didn’t tell him, either,” he adds. “He would’ve wanted to come.”

“Probably,” Stiles agrees. “And he would’ve insisted on making a detour to stare longingly at Allison’s window.”

“Yeah.” Derek dives into the shadow of the next back alley. “Can you move quietly?”

Stiles looks absolutely affronted. “Excuse me, I’m a master of stealth.”

“Of course.”

“I’m not sure whether I like you better when you get all sassy or whether I hate you for it,” Stiles huffs after a moment.

Derek allows himself a rare smile at Stiles’ indignation, hides it by turning his back to Stiles and leading the way. The angel is walking with measured steps, the only sounds he makes being his controlled breathing and the rustling of his clothes. Derek thinks back to that day on the battlefield, Stiles a dark shadow against the sky, surrounded by light, all lithe limbs and graceful movements and steady heartbeat. It’s a stark contrast to his quick, indefatigable mind and flailing arms, the constant buzz of energy around him.

Stiles is a conundrum. It’s like he contradicts himself, and his entire race.

Derek used to think he knew everything there was to know about Angels. Certainly more than any other Fallen, who were only ever interested in how they could kill them most effectively. Derek on the other hand...he’d remember his father and all the knowledge he could draw from these memories helped him get a better idea of what he was up against. He’s always known that Angels could be more than heartless killing machines, if only in rare cases.

Stiles keeps surprising him anyway. He’s _different_. Not a mindless soldier like most Angels are. Not like Derek’s father, who radically separated himself from everything that had to do with Angels and Fallen and wars to dedicate all he had to his family to protect the small unit of creatures he loved. Scott reminds him of that. One’s loyalty can only lie in one place, and if you can’t choose a side, you choose your family.

Stiles’ loyalties are divided, splintered in a way that Derek’s never seen, and _he doesn’t understand him_. He’s a riddle Derek can’t solve, a puzzle he doesn’t have the pieces to complete. Derek thinks he could live a thousand lifetimes and not be able to figure Stiles out, which is probably part of why he can’t stop trying to do so anyway.

He glances over his shoulder and says casually, “You do realise that I could be luring you into a trap, don’t you?”

Stiles tenses only briefly and manages to not trip over his own feet. “Yeah,” he says, in a voice that makes Derek think that he took every possible outcome of this trip into consideration before dismissing the danger in favour of trusting him. Stiles is young, but he’s not naive. It seems like his knack for making stupid decision just outweighs his intelligence and self-preservation instinct from time to time.

Stiles gives Derek a side-eye, and counters: “ _You_ realise I could kick your ass, don’t you?”

Derek snorts. “You don’t even carry a weapon.” Regardless of how good a swordsman Stiles might be – and he may, for all Derek knows – there is now way he can overpower Derek like this.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles protests.

“Your robes don’t hide much. If you’re really hiding a weapon on your body, I don’t want to know where.”

Stiles squeaks and blushes a furious red. “But you’re not.”

“Huh?”

“Luring me into a trap.”

“I could be.”

“I doubt you’d warn me if that were the case,” Stiles points out. “Then again, we’ve established your and your sister’s tendency to take counterproductive actions.” He’s not afraid of Derek at all. Derek wonders whether Stiles is stupidly brave or just plain stupid. Possibly it’s a combination of both.

They’ve nearly reached the city’s outer ring when Derek tenses.

“What?” Stiles asks, although he’s pulling a face as if he already knows what’s going on. He can’t possibly hear the voices echoing along the brick walls yet, but he’s quick to assess situations. “They coming our way?”

Derek nods tersely. The scent is familiar, if only vaguely, but the memory of it has been seared into his brain deep enough that it makes the blood curl in his veins. Makes his instinct tell him to shift, to fly, to attack. “Argents.”

“Dammit,” Stiles breathes. Without warning, he grabs Derek’s hand an yanks him back into a small dead end street. “And way past curfew, too.” He, too, tries to slink into the shadows. “If you come up with a witty excuse as to why we’re out here, let me know.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll recognise me.”

The moon is bright in the sky, and the alley doesn’t provide any shelter from unwanted looks. Derek feels trapped, his back against a wall, desperately trying to control his breathing, to be as quiet and still as possible. The Argents are drawing nearer still, until he can pick up bits and pieces of their conversation. His uncle’s name is mentioned more than once. What a surprise.

He tries to press a little closer to the solid rock behind him, but knows it won’t do any good, because Stiles is still standing in full view, muttering something under his breath. He supposes he could try to edge closer to Derek and let the darkness swallow him up as well, but he doesn’t look too inclined to invade Derek’s personal space.

“Yeah, definitely no excuse for lurking around here,” Stiles sighs. It’s too late for them to split up, for him to leave without being seen or at least raising suspicion. “Except maybe-“ His face goes from pensive to hesitant to determined in under a second.

Derek knows that look. It’s the look Stiles gets when he says ‘oh screw it all’. The look he gets when he’s about to do something colossally stupid, like save the life of an injured Fallen.

Derek opens his mouth, but before he can even think to say something, Stiles literally _attacks_ his mouth with his own, and every word dies in his throat. His mind is an endless litany of _what the hell?_ and he realises that he is standing as still as a statue, too shell-shocked to do anything but quietly freak out until Stiles punches him in the kidneys, effectively reminding him that a convincing act might save his life. Derek makes an angered noise, low in his throat, and kisses back, hands fisting in Stiles’ robes and pulling him as close as possible.

Stiles’ mouth is...distracting, to say the least. So are the soft sounds he makes and his wandering hands. It’s not quite enough to make him forget that his mortal enemies are, by now, no more than a few feet away from them, but it’s enough to make his mind sort of fuzzy and force him to fight hard to concentrate on the belief that ensures the magic veiling his wings doesn’t falter. If it does, he can only pray that the shadows are dark enough to maybe give him a little bit of time to come up with a strategy to take the Argents out. It would be preferable if they just walked by without noticing them, but that’s unlikely, because Stiles’ plan is...not a very good plan. They can’t rely on the Angels just leaving them to it.

This is not his lucky day. The Argents are walking past the entrance of the alley, and just when Derek dares to get his hopes up that they won’t see them, someone pointedly clears his throat. Derek freezes for a split second. Stiles tightens his grip – and when exactly had he slipped his fingers into Derek’s hair? – and doesn’t stop kissing him, as if he hopes that if he ignores them, they’ll just go away.

Naturally, that doesn’t work.

Chris Argent clears his throat again, louder this time. Then a somewhat incredulous voice, this one young and female, pipes up. “ _Stiles_?”

Stiles squeaks and pulls back rather abruptly. Derek quickly buries his face in the junction of his neck. They’re so, so screwed. He is, anyway, and now there is no chance of Stiles sweet talking his way out of this. He feels his stomach churn. This is worse than the worst case scenario he’d come up with, because such is his life. He thought he’d pay his debts, do Stiles a favour, not that he would get him killed. 

“Allison?” Stiles asks, sounding more than a little out of breath. His heart is pounding in his chest. “Chris. This is a little embarrassing.”

“I’d say so,” Chris says coolly.

“Um, Dad,” Allison starts hesitantly. Derek resists peeking. He’s not interested enough in finding out more about Scott’s crush to risk his life. Well, endanger his life more. Throw away the tiny piece of hope he has that he’ll somehow, miraculously, get out of this. “Why don’t you go home, I’ll be right behind you.”

“But-“

“I got this,” she says, sweet but decisive.

“Very well. Make sure to remind your friend of our rules on curfews and public indecency.”

“Oh trust me, I will.” Her voice reminds Derek of a predator ready to jump at his prey, but there’s also an amused edge to it. “So, what happened to your undying love for Lydia?” she asks casually when her father is gone, stepping closer.

Stiles shoots Derek a slightly panicked look. “Uh.”

Derek takes a chance, then. He slips his hands up the curve of Stiles’ spine and buries his fingers in the soft texture of his feathers. At the same time, he starts nibbling on the sensitive skin of his neck. It’s probably more surprise than anything else, but Stiles lets out a startled half-gasp, half-moan, and Allison sways. Derek imagines her eyes are bulging out of her head at the apparent display of extreme intimacy.

He’s lucky Stiles doesn’t attempt to rip his head off.

“Oh God.”

“Oi, no judgment,” Stiles gasps indignantly, fingers digging into Derek’s skin. “Not a _word,_ do you have any idea how badly my psyche was scarred having to watch you and Scott mack on each other all the time? But oh my God, I am so much more uncomfortable about having an audience, could you-“

“ Right. I’ll...leave you to it,” Allison chokes out. “After I’ve dutifully reminded you that you should take this inside. Seriously, get out of here before the next patrol comes by. Uh...enjoy the rest of your evening,” she says, retreating hastily. “Oh, and Stiles?”

“Hm?”

Allison narrows her eyes at him. “I will squeeze every last detail out of you.” With that, she basically flees, and Derek quickly removes his hands from Stiles’ wings and lifts his teeth from Stiles’ neck. The abused skin is already bruising. He shouldn’t feel so smug about it.

Stiles drops his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he murmurs. He sounds too worn-out to move, so Derek doesn’t push him away. “Holy shit, holy shit, _holy_ \- ”

“Stiles.”

“Oh God,” Stiles says. “You have zero right to complain, do I make myself clear? Dude, what the hell was that, anyway?”

“It worked.” Derek shrugs.

“You fucker.” Stiles glares half-heartedly. “You bad-touched me in front of my friend. And“ -  he winces when he probes the tender skin of his neck – “you did your best to chew my head off.”

“I’m sorry.” He feels like pointing out that this is still better than being found out, but he does realise that he overstepped a serious boundary. He pauses. “And thank you,” he adds stiffly. “For, you know, not freaking out.”

“Oh, I was freaking out. I am freaking out right now.”

He is. His heartbeat seems to have accelerated even more; Derek can feel it beat against his chest, can feel it through the layers of clothing, because Stiles still isn’t stepping back although the danger is arguably over. He isn’t necessarily terrified, though. It’s more shock and confusion than anything else, and there’s another scent that catches Derek’s nose, darker and spicier.

“Sorry.” Derek says again, and means it. “It won’t happen again.”

“It’s alright. And you’re welcome. For...that thing. You know.” There’s something akin to disappointment in his words, which doesn’t make any sense to Derek, and he finally straightens and puts a distance between them. The silver moonlight is caressing his skin, and Derek finds himself staring. Stiles’ lips are wet and dark red, his face flushed and his hair messed up, his clothes rumpled. He looks like he just stepped away from more than just a functional make-out session. Derek wants to pull him closer, steal the breath out of his lungs and break him in the gentlest way possible.

He tears his gaze away. “We should get moving.”

“Yeah, absolutely. Good.”

They move more quickly after the incident, but with twice as much caution, anxious to not get stuck in a similar situation again. Neither speaks another word. The air between them feels strangely loaded. From time to time, he senses Stiles’ look on him. It takes some effort to ignore him, causes an itch under his skin that makes Derek get the Hell out of dodge. He really hopes Scott didn’t forget about the meeting. He and Stiles are running a little late, and if they miss Scott or he doesn’t show up in the first place, Derek will strangle him.

Stiles snorts. Apparently, Derek said that out loud. “I’d really rather you didn’t,” he remarks calmly.

“I’d rather he didn’t make me want to all the time,” Derek replies dryly, and stops to take a look around. They’ve reached the Silver Lake, and he thinks he smells Scott on the other side. “Ready?”

“Do I look like I’ll back out now?”

“No.” Derek thinks Stiles wouldn’t back out of anything. He doesn’t know whether that impresses or terrifies him.

Scott is indeed waiting on the other side, emitting confusion, worry and a by now familiar reluctance that emerges almost every time Derek asks him to do something without explaining it. “Derek, why would you-“ He stops dead, his mouth dropping open.

“Yo,” Stiles says, waving lazily, a shit-eating grin spreading over his face.

Scott unfreezes, looking absolutely horrified. “Derek, what did you do?”

“Hey,” Stiles says indignantly. “Don’t I even get a ‘Hello, glad to see you didn’t die and also I totally missed you’ hug?”

“He- “

“Calm down, bro. It’s okay. I’m just visiting and sneaking back home later. You know I’m a pro at that.”

Scott looks back and forth between them, wide-eyed, but luckily he doesn’t seem to want to claw Derek’s face off anymore. Realisation dawns on his face. “You’re the one who saved Derek.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles opens his arms. “Now what about that hug?”

∞

After watching Scott and Stiles cling to each other for a few minutes, Derek shuffles backwards to give them a bit of privacy. He doesn’t go completely out of hearing range – someone has to stand guard, after all – but he does make an effort to not listen in on their conversation despite his burning curiosity. The wind carries the slightly distorted sound of animated chatter and delighted laughter his way and Derek has to take a few deep breaths to ignore the way the sound thrums through his veins. Instead, he listens to the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and watches the moon make its path across the sky.

When the black cloak of the vastness above him begins to lighten with the approaching dawn, he gets up from the stone he’s been perching on, dusts off his robes and makes his way back towards the little clearing. He finds Stiles and Scott sitting side by side, one of Scott’s arms carelessly slung over Stiles’ shoulder, like he’s about to pull him into a playful headlock and they look so comfortable around each other that it makes Derek almost jealous.

“Oh look,” Stiles sighs, “it’s my chaperon.”

“You need to leave,” Derek tells him matter-of-factly.

Stiles sighs again, looking skyward. “Yeah, I guess, unless I want my dad coming home to find my bed empty and unused.”

“Late shift at the fortress?” Scott guesses.

“Nah,” Stiles says, entirely too casually to fool anyone. “He’s not in charge there anymore.”

“Stiles, is this-“

“Duh,” Stiles makes before Scott can even finish the question. “What do you think? It’s fine, don’t worry about it. They know it wasn’t him, but they have no way of taking it out on me –yet –  and this is all they dared do to him, so you have nothing to feel bad about.”

“What do you mean, _yet_?” Scott cries, clearly upset.   

“I haven’t completed my training.” Stiles shrugs. “And while Gerard would all too happily throw me to the wolves – pun intended – he also knows he can’t really do that, because I’m a rare and invaluable specimen whose special skills are indispensable.” A wicked grin sneaks across his features. “You should see his face every time he sees me, it’s like he’s swallowed a gallon of lemon juice. It’s priceless.”

Scott quirks his lips at that, but he doesn’t seem very reassured. “Please don’t get into trouble.”

“Who, me? I would never.”

Derek snorts. He doesn’t know Stiles half as well as Scott does, but everything he’s done so far screams delinquent. Troublemaker. He has no idea what their conversation was about, and by all means he should have no reason to care about what Stiles gets up to anymore, but even he can’t help but feel a pang of worry. “Scott, go get cleaned up,” he says curtly. “We can’t show up at the camp smelling like Angel. I’ll make sure he gets home safely.”

“That’s nice, but I think I can find my way back to the other side of the lake without assistance,” Stiles points out. And he’s right, of course, but it feels a lot like rejection, and it stings. Something must’ve shown on his face, because Stiles’ expression softens. “I appreciate it, really, but it’s much easier for me to sneak back in if I don’t have to worry about someone seeing you. Your being in our territory was madness the first time around; doing it a second time is just like you’re asking to be killed, and I wouldn’t want anyone to undo my hard work. We’ve had this conversation, I think.”

“Okay.”

Stiles frowns a little, but nods. “Thank you, though,” he says softly. “I mean it.”

Derek shrugs. “We’re even.”

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles informs him seriously. “You never owed me in the first place.”

Derek is inclined to disagree, but there’s no point in starting a petulant discussion with Stiles now, not when any hold-up endangers them again. He’s had enough close calls for one night.

There’s a moment of silence, the quietness hanging heavy and dreadful in the air. Scott draws in a sharp breath. “So this is it, then?”

“I don’t know, I could visit you some other time,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek interrupts. “I’m upping the guards around the lake to make sure no one crosses the border unseen from now on.”

The Angel’s smile turns wistful. “What, you don’t trust me to not go to the Argents and tell them to take advantage of the security breach and come slit your throats in the night when you’re all sleeping?”

“I don’t trust you,” Derek says, which is a total lie. “I also don’t trust Scott to not do anything stupid.”

“Good to know someone is looking out for him.”

“I’m not a child,” Scott grumbles. “I can look after myself.”

“I know,” Stiles says and pulls him into a hug, holding on tight for a while before his hands fall useless to his sides, and he takes a deliberate step back. “Take care,” he tells him, before looking at Derek. “You, too.”

Derek wants to curl his hand around his wrists, hold him back, force him to stay. The ferocity of the craving catches him off guard, but he forces it back, because he has no right, none at all, to want anything from Stiles. He isn’t allowed to want _him_ , either, and he doesn’t for the life of him understand why he does. Down that road lies disaster, and he’s not going there.

He doesn’t quite trust his voice, so he only tilts his head in a way that says goodbye and watches silently as Stiles spreads his wings and lifts himself up into the air.

Stiles pauses, hovering hesitantly in the air, pursing his lips. “You know,” he says, nodding his head at Derek’s wings, now black again since he took the necklace off, “I like them better that way.” He smirks at Derek’s stunned face, and then he’s gone.

 Scott is standing beside him, body tense and radiating sadness. Derek wonders, once he shakes himself out of the haze clouding his thoughts and the wonderment speeding up his heartbeat, if it wasn’t cruel to bring Stiles here; force Scott to say goodbye to his old life again.

“Come on,” Scott says, voice choked with the tears he’s holding back. “Let’s go home.”

They wash themselves in silence, making sure to wash any lingering scents off as thoroughly as they can with the clear, cold water of the lake. Derek feels an odd sense of loss as the last traces of it are washed away. He hadn’t noticed before, how it had filled the air around him, stuck in his nose.

“So,” Scott begins as they make their way back, “Stiles told me what happened. After the battle.”

Derek grunts non-committally.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“No one would’ve believed me.”

“I would’ve,” Scott protests.

“Yes, because you know Stiles,” Derek retorts. “Not everyone does. And he’s hardly the norm.” He sends Scott a scrutinising look. “I think you underestimate the number of people on both sides who don’t want this war to end in a truce. The mutual hatred and distrust run too deep.”

“Not with everyone,” Scott points out. “Not with you.” He licks his lips nervously. “I thought...you’re always so _angry_. I thought you were just like the others, mindlessly hating the Angels. I didn’t realise you’re mostly mad at yourself and the world in general.”

Derek doesn’t deign that worthy of a response. It’s not like he doesn’t wish things would turn out the way Scott wants them too; it’s just that he’s too much of a realist still to actually believe it. Stiles’ actions had made him think, yes, that maybe there was a possibility the both sides would eventually remember that they used to be friends, allies, family, but he’s not sure he’ll live to see the day.

“It’s just all so....so dumb,” Stiles goes on angrily. “I don’t even know why we’re fighting against each other. I was raised to believe you were all monsters, but now I know that you are not and it’s – I was so scared. When I got bitten, I was so scared. And I kept hoping that maybe I wouldn’t turn, maybe it wasn’t just ‘you turn or you die’”

“Or you turn and die because your so-called friends kill you.”

Scott sends him a half-hearted glare, but he doesn’t protest, because he knows Derek is right. If they aren’t executed or change sides in time, the newly turned Fallen often even choose to commit suicide. This way they believe they at least die in honour.

“Stiles found out, of course,” he says quietly. “I was never good at keeping things from him. I thought he’d be afraid of me. _I_ was afraid of me. But he didn’t care at all. And I thought, if he doesn’t, why would anyone else?”

“But they did.”

“My mum didn’t. Allison neither, I think. I’m not sure, though; she only found out when it became clear we couldn’t hide my wings turning black anymore and her father discovered I’d been bitten, and I didn’t get a chance to talk to her, after. They wouldn’t let her see me in my cell”

Derek frowns as it occurs to him that he never bothered to ask Scott about this part of his past before. “I didn’t know they locked you up,” he says quietly. “I always thought you ran away before they could catch you.” He tilts his head, curious now. He’s never heard of anyone fleeing the fortress before. “How did you escape?”

“Stiles got me out. His father works – well, worked, I guess – for the law enforcement in Beacon Hills. Stiles used to spend a lot of time in the fortress, so he knew his way around and had the schedules of the patrols memorised. He got me to the border in no time, telling me he’d rather never see me again but know I was alive than watch me die.” He sighs. “I should’ve known they’d never buy that I escaped without assistance.”

“You think he’ll get into trouble,” Derek realises.

“You never know with Stiles. He promised he’d lay low. But then, he’s always had a penchant for trouble, and nothing interests him more than things he’s not supposed to care for.”

There’s an undertone in his voice, below the long-suffering fondness, that has Derek narrow his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks suspiciously.

Scott gives him a wry smile. “You’re smart,” he says, and turns to walk into the direction of Deaton’s clinic. Derek had barely noticed they’d reached their destination. “You’ll figure it out.”  

∞

He dreams of Stiles that night.

It’s both the deepest and least restful sleep he’s had in years.

∞


	3. Chapter 3

∞

The dreams don’t stop. On the contrary, they grow more intense with every night that passes.

Before, it was something he could deal with, that he could easily ignore by day and look forward to by night; the faded memories of touches and laughter and eyes as bright as the sun. Before, the dreams were strangely innocent; filled with a deep longing, yes, but also easy to dismiss.

Ever since the night Derek snuck into Beacon Hills to allow Stiles to see his best friend again – ever since the night he _kissed_ Stiles – the dreams have been of a decidedly non-innocent nature. He thinks it’s probably because his mind has more to go on, now, to create these fantasies. He remembers how Stiles’ body felt against his, how he his fingers combed through Derek’s hair, the taste of his mouth, his skin.

The soft texture of his feathers under Derek’s fingertips, the shiver running through his entire body when Derek buried his hands in Stiles’ wings, the strangled moan escaping his lungs.

Derek knows he shouldn’t, but more than once he wakes up hard and aching and finds almost instant relief in this particular memory, only barely managing to bite back Stiles’ name when he comes.  What he did could be considered the grossest violation of personal space possible, but he can’t help thinking that it had felt right, like his hands could never find a better place to rest that on the most sacred body part of any winged creature. He wonders if Stiles felt the same, if that’s the reason why he hadn’t tensed up and pushed him away as he, by all means, should have.

With the dreams comes something else. The faint ache of incompleteness he felt before flares up and sets his body ablaze with longing and desire that isn’t purely physical. Stiles’ smell won’t ever quite leave his nose and sometimes Derek misses his warmth so much he could scream. There’s no real physical pain, but the awareness of his absence is ever present in the back of his mind, wound around his entire existence, and it’s distracting. It’s like an itch under his skin, not unpleasant, necessarily, but a steady, constant sensation that makes him feel restless, jittery, makes it hard for him to concentrate. Derek thinks about the perpetual low hum of energy surrounding Stiles and wonders if the Angel always feels like this.  

“Hell, Derek, what is wrong with you?” Laura snaps at him one day, when she’s effortlessly sent him plummeting to the ground at fight training for the fourth time in a row. She usually has the physical advantage over him, but under normal circumstances he’d put up much more of a fight, make her pull out all the stops in order to beat him. Today, his performance is more than subpar. Actually, it’s ridiculously pathetic.

Of course she thinks there is something wrong with him.

There _is_ , but then there isn’t, per se, and he doesn’t know how to tell her.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, massaging his temples. “I can’t really concentrate today.” Lying by omission is still the best - and only - way of lying.

“I noticed,” she deadpans. “I also noticed that you haven’t only been distracted today. You’ve been off the entire week.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Derek offers, tentatively.

“You’re worried about going back into battle,” Laura guesses, and she’s not wrong. He is. He’s always hated the thoughtless slaughter, but he’ even more reluctant to go back to fighting now, after everything that has happened. It’s by far not the most forceful thing eating at him, but it’s another thing making him uncomfortable.

“Amongst other things,” he admits.

“Like?”

Derek remains stubbornly silent. It’s the only thing he can do, really. Knowing that doesn’t help ease the sting of her disappointment and sadness.

“I just wish you’d trust me enough talk to me again,” she whispers, barely audible even with his enhanced hearing.

It’s the second time in the span of a few months that he’s responsible for the crack in her voice, for the tears that well up in her eyes; before the last battle, he hadn’t seen her like this since their family died. It feels awful, knowing that he is responsible for this. That he is the one who put that expression on her face, and most of the tired lines around her eyes and mouth.

Derek wishes desperately he could tell her that it’s not her fault, that he _does_ trust her, that he wants to talk to her more than anything, but he knows saying it would just make things worse, would make her worry more and make her ask and ask again until she got an answer, and that would be more dangerous than anything.

He can’t stand the brokenness of her anymore; it’s a heavy weight on his chest, threatening to choke him. The sudden need to get away from her, to someplace where he can breathe, is overwhelming. So he flees, leaves the training area hurriedly, ignoring the confused and worried calls of his pack members. Thankfully, they let him leave without trying to hold him back.

He flies, because that is the only thing taking his mind off things and clearing his thoughts. The fresh air blowing in his face, catching in his wings and his robes lets him forget, if only for a while, about everything that is fundamentally wrong in his life. He doesn’t bother paying attention to where he’s going, mostly lets the winds decide the direction, until a seemingly endless plane of dry grassland stretches out before him. There are still some dark blotches colouring the grass redder than it’s supposed to be, still places where the nature is charred from the fires raging here months ago.

Derek lands abruptly. He hadn’t realised how far he’d flown, how close he’d come to enemy territory. The former battlefield had been lost to the Fallen that day, but the Angels weren’t too keen on walking across the spots where their comrades died on a daily basis, and there is no way of securing the fields, holding the line. They’d have to build a new fort, out here, and that would be too risky, would take too much time and effort. The Angels aren’t stupid; they know the Fallen would attack such a weak point in their defence immediately. So for now, it’s still somewhat of a neutral ground. Angel territory, officially, but they don’t come out here.

Nor do the Fallen, usually. But it just figures that his subconscious, when let unsupervised, uncontrolled, would lead him to the very place where most of his struggles began. Of course it would lead him to where he met Stiles.

He takes a look around. It’s impossible to determine the exact spot where he lay dying in puddles of his own blood; the planes are just too vast and the only means of orientation are the vague shadows cast by the distant mountain ranges in the West. Blinking against the light of the setting sun, he can almost make out their shapes. He doesn’t stop to think about it, just spreads his wings again, and pushes himself off the ground with a strong flap of his wings.

For one, he reasons, he really should get out from where every enemy could spot him from miles away. Secondly....maybe it will give him a certain amount of closure, a chance to let go of Stiles and the unspeakable desires that have been haunting him.

Finding his way around the rocks and cliffs isn’t easy; he’d been unconscious when Stiles had carried him to the cave where he’d nursed him, and he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings when Laura came to collect him, too caught up in a cluster of contradictory feelings - confusion and relief and pain - to care about the landscape. After all, Derek hadn’t thought he’d ever try to find the way back.

Over the course of the next hour, Derek discovers a number of hidden caves - some of which are so small they are barely more than foxholes in the rock and barely deserve the name - but none of them look familiar. Granted, he was mostly delirious, so there’s the possibility he wouldn’t recognise the particular cave he is looking for even if he found it, but he’s pretty convinced none of the ones that he peeked inside that were big enough to enter looks anything like the one Stiles hid him in.  

He’s just about to give up, letting his pent-up frustration get the better of him, when he rounds another corner and sees a familiar, small, almost perfectly round platform enclosed by rocks, scattered with broken columns, remnants of a past lookout point that had long since been abandoned. The image of Stiles perched on top of one of those columns, casual and relaxed as he watched Derek, flashes before his inner eye.

The entrance to the cave itself isn’t hard to spot when you know what you’re looking for, but anyone passing by would probably overlook it. It’s narrow and half covered by collapsed rocks, and Derek wagers it’s only a minor earthquake away from collapsing entirely. He sidesteps the stones carefully, tries to manoeuvre through the cramped passage leading into the mountain without running into the walls. He doesn’t want to imagine how difficult it must have been to fit oneself plus an unconscious Fallen through it. Strangely enough, there’s no darkness awaiting him at the other end; the tunnel itself is obscure, dark enough that he has to rely on his night vision to navigate it, but he can see the faint glow of soft light illuminating the far end of it.

It’s probably a bad idea to venture deeper, but Derek does it anyway. 

After about fifty feet, the passage widens and eventually gives way to a large room, dimly lit by streaks of sunlight fighting their way through small holes in the ceiling and walls that he thinks were originally used for ventilation rather than as a source of light. A few unlit torches have been hung up the walls. They could provide just enough light to patch someone up, he guesses and shakes his head. No one has been here in weeks, months, more likely; the air has been washed clean from all scents. Well, he says clean. It’s frowsty, actually, and it _should_ feel stifling, claustrophobic. Instead, it gives him a feeling of security he hasn’t felt in confined places in a long time.

Derek kicks idly at the fine layer of dust and grit that hasn’t been disturbed in a while. Beneath, the ground is tinged reddish-brown, a reminder that not too long ago he was bleeding out on this very ground. That smell, too, has vanished, but when he closes his eyes, he can almost catch a faint whiff of aconite and copper, and for a moment he swears he can smell the ozone and dew and musk and sunshine that is distinctly _Stiles_ , can hear the quick but steady thudding of a familiar heartbeat –

He _is_ hearing a second heartbeat.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” someone says behind him. “Especially not here. How did you even find this place?”

Derek’s head snaps up and he’s on full alert in a matter of nanoseconds, whirling around only to be faced with a familiar set of honey-coloured eyes and a sardonic smile.

Stiles sighs. “Every time I think you can’t get any more insane, you strive to prove me wrong.”

Derek wills himself not to flinch too much, to appear unbothered, while silently cursing himself. How could he have gotten so immersed in his memories, so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard of smelt Stiles approaching? Had it been an enemy, he’d probably be dead right now. He doesn’t think his front of casualness fools Stiles at all, but then he has a feeling Stiles reads him better than most people anyway, despite not having spent much time around him.

“Stiles,” he greets, keeping his voice level, emotionless.

Stiles sighs again and pushes himself away from the stone wall he’d been leaning against and takes a couple of steps into the room. “I feel like I’m repeating myself every time we have a conversation,” he begins, “but I have to ask: what are you doing here?”

Derek feels the corner of his mouth twitch with amusement. This, indeed, is a recurring theme with them, it seems. For a moment he contemplates lying, making up a flimsy excuse, but it doesn’t feel right. “I don’t know,” he confesses quietly.

“You don’t know?” Stiles repeats, but he doesn’t sound incredulous. There’s a hint of surprise, maybe, and understanding, and maybe the tiniest bit of disappointment.

“No,” Derek says. “I was flying. I didn’t pay attention to where I was going and I ended up...here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Me, too.”

It’s not quite a lie, but there’s a minuscule blip in his heartbeat that suggests he isn’t telling the whole truth either. Derek frowns, considers whether or not to call him out on it. It’s probably not his place to do so, but he’s never much cared for what’s appropriate and what isn’t. “You’re lying.”

Stiles looks annoyed, almost angry. “Get your paws off my inner organs,” he snaps.

“Funny,” Derek deadpans, gracefully ignoring the dog-joke, “Of the two of us, you’re the one who’s literally touched some of my inner organs.”

“Oh yeah, fun times,” Stiles retorts sharply. “I really enjoyed the part where I had to keep your spleen from exiting your body. That was a blast.”

“I...” This is not how he expected this to go. No, actually, he never expected to see Stiles again, so he can’t say he spent a lot of time fantasising about what they’d talk about if they met again. And when he dreamed about Stiles...well, there hadn’t been much talk, either. Derek quickly stops his thoughts from going down that particular route. It’s surprisingly easy, because he’s thrown off by the cool aloofness Stiles displays, the rigidity of his body as he keeps a safe distance from Derek.

He’s never done that before: scream silently at him to stay away with every fibre of his body. It feels like a punch in the gut.

“I’m sorry,” Derek offers. It comes out awkward and stilted. He figures it’s still better than nothing. “I hope you didn’t get into trouble for...you know.” He doesn’t really know how to talk about; they’d done a fairly good job of avoiding openly acknowledging what had happened that night when they’d almost been caught by the Argents, and he’s not sure Stiles doesn’t want to think about it at all. Certainly not the way Derek thinks about it, judging by the way he tenses at the reminder.

“No. Allison drilled me a little, but she backed off eventually when I told her I didn’t want anyone to know because you’re a guy.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “She believed that?”

“Yes,” Stiles bites out. “Unlike other people, we have that thing called privacy and Angels don’t go around prying into their friends’ personal lives and constantly questioning whether they’re telling the truth or not.”

Derek snaps his mouth shut.

“I – sorry,” Stiles sighs, shoulders slumped, defeated.

“There’s no need to apologise.”

“Yeah, there is. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. It’s just...I’ve been on the edge all week and I came here to try and not explode into anyone’s face.”

“It’s my fault. I forget, sometimes, that Angels have different customs. My father never took issue with it, so I didn’t consider that it might bother you.”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s a culture thing,” he says. “Just because I could listen to your heartbeat if I wanted to doesn’t mean I should; it’s a matter of showing respect and trust, I guess. I don’t know how you do it, to be honest. How are you not constantly at each other’s throats when you can’t lie about, say, whether you hate someone’s guts or not?”

Derek smiles weakly. “We usually tune it out, too, when we’re with people we don’t know very well. It’s common curtsey and a question of politeness, but it doesn’t matter much when you’re with friends or family. We believe that you shouldn’t lie to the ones closest to you, and if you are in a pack, there is no need for secrets either.”

“But I’m not part of your pack,” Stiles points out.

“No.”

“So why are you listening to my heartbeat?” he asks. “I know I probably shouldn’t really be bothered by it. I mean, what with our history. As you rightly pointed out, I’ve, uh, had my hands on some of your most private body parts and you’ve had your fingers buried in my wings and your tongue down my throat, so there isn’t really anything private between us anymore. Anything but my thoughts, that is, and I really don’t want you digging in there.”

Embarrassment rolls off of him in waves, rather than annoyance.  Derek doesn’t know what he could possibly be embarrassed about, but he knows he has no right to argue, nor to pry. He wishes he could promise Stiles that he’ll do as asked, but the Angel at least deserves honesty. “I will try,” he says. “I don’t know if I can.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “You don’t know if you can stop listening for my heartbeat?” he repeats flatly. “I thought you said you could easily tune out with non-pack members.”

“Yes. But I always hear your heartbeat.”

Stiles splutters. “Excuse me?”

“I said-“

“I heard what you said,” Stiles interrupts him. “I just don’t understand it. Is it because I’m, uh, an enemy? Is this a race thing?”

“No,” Derek confesses after a beat. “It’s a you thing.”

Stiles frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t make much sense to me either,” Derek replies quietly, “but it’s how it is and it’s driving me _crazy_.”

Stiles looks offended for a second, before something seems to occur to him. “Hold on,” he says and swallows heavily.

Derek tries, and fails, not to follow the movement of his throat. It had been easier, before, when everything in Stiles’ posture had told him to keep a certain distance, to suppress the nearly overwhelming urge to touch. Now that they’ve mostly gone back to their familiar banter, letting their guards down completely, it’s much harder to resist stretching out his hand and running his fingers over Stiles’ smooth skin, trace the gentle curves of his muscles, rake his fingers through the messy hair.

“When you say you _always hear my heartbeat_ ,” Stiles realises, “you aren’t talking about whenever we’re in proximity of each other.”

“No,” Derek confirms, even though he wishes he could deny it. “I’m saying I can hear your heartbeat in my ear, feel it in my veins, every second that I am awake. Just like your scent is always is my nose.” _And your taste still on my tongue_ , he adds silently. _The feeling of your wings just beneath my fingertips._ It’s something he doesn’t dare say out loud, but judging from the way Stiles goes very, very still he has a feeling the Angel gets what he’s hinting at.

The utter lack of a visible, outward reaction that would betray Stiles’ feelings about the revelation is frustrating, but at least he doesn’t recoil in horror, Derek thinks with grim humour. The Angel just looks at him, just like he did when he first met Derek lying wounded on the battlefield, processing the new information and trying to figure out what to make of it.

“Why did you come here, Stiles?” he asks quietly, taking a tentative step forward.

“It felt like the right thing to do,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t need to listen to his heartbeat to know he’s telling the truth. Stiles lets out a huff of laughter. “I was hoping you’d show up here one day. I kept coming here, after the battle, you know, back when I didn’t know whether you’d be okay. I was thinking that maybe you’d come look for me to let me know...but you didn’t, of course, and I told myself I was being stupid, absolutely ridiculous, and then you suddenly stood in my bedroom and I – I don’t know,” he stops, frustrated. “What are we doing here, Derek?”

‘ _Nothing good’_ , would be the right answer, Derek thinks, or maybe ‘ _something awfully stupid,_ ’ but he assumes the question is mostly rhetorical. Even Derek, who isn’t half as adept when it comes to interacting with others, who has shoved his feelings so far into the most hidden depths of his soul that he is never quite sure what to make of them when they bubble to the surface, knows, instinctively, where this is going, so Stiles must have a very clear idea of where they’re headed. It doesn’t explain anything, doesn’t give any answers to the most prominent question _why_ perpetually nagging his tired mind, but he doesn’t need to know how they ended up here to anticipate what’s lying ahead of them if they don’t step away now.

This is the moment, Derek realises with sudden clarity. This is when they decide which path to go down. Still, despite everything, it could go either way. One of them, both of them could still decide to back off, put a distance between them. They could go, leave it all behind and try to forget about it. End this, whatever it is, before it has really begun. It would hurt, he thinks, at first, but he could overcome it, learn how to deal with it just like he’s learnt to deal with the loss of his family.

It wouldn’t be easy, but much, much easier than the alternative. Safer for everyone involved. Safer for everyone even loosely associated with them. He thinks of Laura and his pack, thinks of Stiles’ friends and his father that he so desperately tries to keep safe, and thinking about the danger they’d be putting them all in, how they’d betray the ones they love most, makes his stomach churn.

And yet, when he looks at Stiles, standing close enough to him now that he’d just have to reach out to pull him in and lose himself inside of him, there’s nothing he wants more than to throw all precautions into the wind and just, for once, take what he desires.

That makes the decision even more frightening, because he’s done that once before, and it truly couldn’t have ended in a bigger disaster. Knowing that everything depends on one tiny decision, something as simple as a light touch that may decide their fate, is incredibly scary in itself. It’s not like everyone doesn’t make a hundred life-altering decisions every day, but it’s different when you’re completely aware of it and the possible consequences. Especially when you really want to do something that absolutely defies logic, that makes every rational brain cell scream at you in frantic protest.

Derek is not, in fact, a naive romantic, nor is he an optimist. He used to be, he thinks, back when he didn’t care much about the world and didn’t pay attention to what was going on around him, when he didn’t stop to examine the society his family lived in more closely, back when he took everything for granted. His sixteen-year-old self had been hopelessly romantic and naive, had been stupid enough to believe that his and Kate’s love would defy all odds, would be the shining example that make Angels and Fallen see that they didn’t have to fight against each other, that they would, of course, have their happy ending. All of that had been burnt out of him when Kate murdered his family. He still relies on his instincts because that’s what he’d been taught growing up, but he’s much more rational now. Laura often teases him for being a humourless pessimist, but he likes to think he’s just being realistic when he’s always prepared for the worst outcome.

Rationally, he knows that this can never end well. There will be no grand love story that overcomes all obstacles. They won’t end up magically ending the war, like the heroes did in the stories Derek’s parents used to tell him before putting him to sleep. Any relationship between them will inevitably end in a catastrophe.

He should get out as quickly as possible, but he remembers how Stiles’ body had felt pressed up against him, more _natural_ and _right_ and _home_ than anything he’s ever known, and he finds he can’t move at all except to cup Stiles’ face with his hands.

“Okay.” Stiles exhales shakily. “We- yes, okay.”

“You can still leave if you don’t want this,” Derek reminds him softly, tracing Stiles’ cheekbone with his thumb.

“If I don’t want – oh God, remind me not to punch you in the head, you idiot,” Stiles says and fists his hands in Derek’s clothes to minimise the distance between them. “Can I touch you? Please tell me I can touch you.”

“Who’s the idiot now?” Derek scoffs.

“Shut up,” Stiles tells him. “Or I _will_ punch you. It’s not like you’ve been making it easy for me figure out what you want. I never know what to expect of you,” he says, trailing his fingers over Derek’s arms and down his sides. “If anyone asked me for a definition of ‘sending someone mixed signals’ I’d redirect them to you. When you showed up in Beacon Hills,” he confesses, warm breath fanning over Derek’s face, “I was so sure you were only doing this for Scott, or maybe because of your screwed up understanding of debt. And then you kissed me like...like it was real. Like you wanted it to be real. And then, after, you wouldn’t even really look at me, as if you thought you’d made a terrible mistake.”

“I did,” Derek murmurs against Stiles’ lips. “I shouldn’t have.”

“Well, and I shouldn’t be here now,” Stiles says without making any move whatsoever to act upon his words. Instead, he only tightens his grip on Derek’s arm. “And you _definitely_ shouldn’t be here.”

Derek hums in agreement. “This is a bad idea.”

“The worst,” Stiles agrees with a lopsided smile, and leans forward to slot their mouths together. 

Later, Derek will be embarrassed by the small, broken sound that escapes him upon the touch, by the way he struggles with his balance as his attempt to wrap his arms around Stiles’ torso has him nearly tripping over a rock protruding from the ground in his eagerness to eliminate even the smallest space left between them. Stiles is the one who keeps them from toppling over, huffing out a breathless laugh into his mouth. His hands refuse to leave Derek’s skin even for a second, roaming his body impatiently, needy. Derek can feel the annoyance coming off Stiles every time his touch is hindered by clothes; he’d be more amused by it if he didn’t face the same problem. Even with Stiles’ entire body pressed up against him, fitting perfectly between his legs and their tongues intertwined, it’s just not _enough._

“Off,” Stiles whines, tugging frantically at his robes. “Off.”

Derek snorts, but obediently lifts his arms so that Stiles can undo the clasp keeping his dark tunic wrapped tight around his body, lets the soft cloth sweep down his shoulders and fall to the ground.

“God,” Stiles groans, “how are you even real?”

Derek would very much like to direct that question right back at him, but the moment he opens his mouth Stiles surges forward again, licks into the space between his lips. His fingers dig into Derek’s waist like he wants to leave a mark, and Derek is more than okay with that.

He’s not, however, okay with the lack of undressing from Stiles. He briefly considers just ripping the robes to shreds with his claws just to get them out of the way as quickly as possible, but he doesn’t think Stiles would appreciate having to fly home naked very much, so he just tugs at them insistently enough to get his point across. The carefully draped cloth drops down but catches at his waist as Derek latches onto Stiles’ neck, nips and licks an bites his way down hungrily.

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, hands sliding into Derek’s hair and gripping it so tightly it almost hurts. “Derek, do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this? How long I’ve wanted your mouth on me, fuck, _Derek_.” He mewls when Derek sinks blunt teeth into the tender skin just above his collarbone, hips bucking up against Derek’s, revealing just how much he wants this, wants Derek, and Derek chases the contact, bring their groins together again, somewhat lost in the sensation and heat of Stiles’s hardness against his own even  through two layers of cloth. Stiles’ comments become increasingly less coherent and less enunciated as they grind against each other, but Derek still manages to catch several fragments of the words Stiles pants into his ear:

“Shouldn’t have been missing this so much,” he mumbles, “fuck, Derek, don’t stop, fucking _ruined_ me.”

“Not yet,” Derek says, voice rough with desire.

Stiles makes a garbled noise. “You can’t say things like that and not follow up, just saying.”

“Oh, I intend to follow up,” Derek assures him, drawing in a sharp breath as Stiles’ fingers dip below the waistband of his trousers. “You complain about wanting me, but do you know what it’s like having you in my head all the time, just, dammit, your _mouth_ , Stiles!”

“That the only thing you’ve been fantasising about?” Stiles asks coyly, running his fingers along the waistband, never actually going where they’re supposed to go even when Derek arches into the touch. The little bastard.

“You want a complete list?” Derek deadpans.

“Yeah. If I’m satisfied I may even give you mine.”

“How about you stop talking and get your hand on my dick instead? I’m pretty sure that would be more satisfying for both of us.”

“So _pushy_ ,” Stiles grumbles, but actually does slip his hand into Derek’s trousers to wrap his fingers around his cock.

Derek curses under his breath, lets his head drop onto Stiles’ shoulder and tugs at his robes with more force until they finally fall to the floor, pooling around his ankles. He’s even more beautiful than Derek imagined he would be, and he wants to taste every inch of his skin, like the salty sweat up where it’s gathering above his collarbone.

“Yeah, okay, more nakedness, good idea,” Stiles breathes and fumbles with Derek’s pants before Derek even gets a chance of touching him. It’s spectacularly unfair, but on the other hand, as soon as he’s kicked off his boots and the remainder of his clothes have joined Stiles’ on the ground, he gets the reward of the slick-hot slide of Stiles’ erection against his own. He can’t hold in the moan that falls from his lips, and Stiles is shivering upon the touch as well.

“Why are we still standing up? I feel like we should get into a horizontal position, right the fuck now, because I can’t guarantee my knees won’t give out.”

“I’d catch you,” Derek promises.

“I’d be offended if you were still able to react that quickly, it’d mean I’m not doing my job.”

Derek huffs out a laugh. “I don’t have –“

“I do,” Stiles says. “I’ve got oils and stuff in my bag, just, please, would you –“

Derek cuts him off with a kiss, then stumbles over to where he sees Stiles’ bag lying on the ground near the entrance. He’s not nearly as graceful as he usually is, but who could fault him for his brain cells taking a break for a moment when he glances over his shoulder and sees Stiles stretching out lazily on the ground, miles and miles of lithe, long limbs and watching Derek with a look of wanton hunger. He grabs the first flask of oil he can get his hands on – it’s scented, rosemary, he thinks, but he can’t even get himself to give a fuck – and hurries back to Stiles, lowering himself down until their bodies are aligned.

“You okay?” he asks when he sees that Stiles’ eyes are somewhat glazed over.

“Very, very okay. Sensational, even. Just not entirely sure I’m not dreaming.”

Derek smirks. “You’ve been dreaming about me?”

“How about we skip the embarrassing discussion about my graphic dreams and get right to the part where you get me ready, because I’m pretty sure I’m going to combust from the sexual frustration if you don’t get inside me soon.”

Derek’s throat is impossibly dry. The words, the promise, the images prompted in his mind make another wave of heat surge through his body. “Have you done this before?”

“With someone else?” Stiles asks. “No. But I’ve spend quite a lot of time since out last meeting with one hand on my dick and the fingers of the other up my ass and thinking about you, so don’t treat me as if I’m made of glass.”

Fuck, this boy is going to destroy him. “Really?” he asks, opening the flask with one hand and pouring a generous amount of oil over his fingers. “What were you thinking about, exactly?” His fingers trace the circle of Stiles’ hole, just shy of dipping inside, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. “I can tell you what I’ve been thinking about,” Derek murmurs against his lips. “Your fingers, for one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He grabs Stiles’ hand, brings it up to his mouth, watches gleefully as Stiles’ eyes widen when he mouths along the knuckles before sucking two digits into his mouth.

“Holy fuck.”Derek hums in agreements, curls his tongue upwards, and Stiles keens. “Derek,” he whines, “as awesome as that is, can I remind you that your other hand is woefully unoccupied?”

Derek draws back a little, frowning at him. “How are even still that eloquent?”

“You’re not distracting enouuu--- _fuck_.”

“Better?” Derek grins, twisting his finger a little and enjoying the way Stiles arches up beneath him, urging him to push inside deeper.

“Much.”

Despite Stiles’ complaints, Derek takes his time opening him up, revelling in the sight of watching Stiles slowly fall apart beneath his hands until he’s reduced to a mumbling, panting and shivering mess, fisting his hands in the clothes under him and meeting every thrust of Derek’s fingers with his hips. Stiles lets out a pathetically needy sound when he finally pulls his fingers out and sits back on his heels to slick himself up.

Stiles props himself up on his elbows and watches, enraptured, licking his lips. “How do you want to do this?” he asks.

Derek shrugs. “Any suggestions?”

“Are you serious? I thought for sure you’d have a very detailed plan in mind.”

Another shrug. “I have pictured a lot of scenarios, Stiles. I don’t really care which one we try first; I’d take you whichever way you want me to.”

Stiles blinks. “Okay,” he says. “Can I-“ And then he moving, pushing Derek down and manoeuvring him onto his back, climbing into his lap. Derek dies a little from the hotness of it. “Is this okay?”

Okay doesn’t even begin to cover it, and Derek hates the trace of insecurity in Stiles’ voice, so he pulls himself up, wraps his arms tighter around Stiles’ torso and kisses him until Stiles is clutching at his shoulders to tell him just how okay he is with that.

“Okay,” Stiles says when he pulls back eventually. “Point taken. And just so you know, this is probably going to be over embarrassingly fast, so –“

Derek honestly doesn’t think he’s going to last long either. Stiles sneaks a hand between the two of them, curls his fingers around Derek’s cock to help him as he lowers himself down, and it takes Derek every inch of control he has to keep himself from thrusting up, the combination of tightness and heat almost too much for him to handle. By the time he bottoms out, both of them are panting heavily.

“Take your time,” he murmurs against Stiles’s shoulder.

Stiles sighs. “I’m okay, I’m just gonna-“ He rotates his hips just a little and moans quietly. “This is good, this is really good.” He lifts himself up a little and slides down again, and Derek groans. “I really hope you weren’t planning on taking this slow,” Stiles says, “because really, slow is the last thing I want right now. So don’t you dare hold back. I don’t wanna do all the work – yes, fuck, _yes_!” Derek thrusts up, hesitantly at first and then again a little more determined, and Stiles hisses, grinds down to meet him halfway, and after that, it’s easy.

It doesn’t take them long to find a rhythm they’re both content with, and it’s surprisingly easy to move in sync with each other despite not knowing their way around the other’s body yet, despite the newness of it all. It’s the simple biology of skin against skin, and Derek loses himself in Stiles’ touch, in his kisses, in the feeling of Stiles all around him.

“Tell me I can touch you,” Stiles groans, “please let me touch you.”

Derek is confused for a split second, because touching each other is all they’ve been doing for what seems like hours, but then he gets what Stiles means. Until now, their hands have politely stayed away from each other’s wings, too afraid of crossing that line that means more intimacy, more trust, than sex does. It’s ridiculous, considering Stiles has already touched Derek’s wings when he stitched him up, and Derek had his fingers fisted deep inside Stiles’ when they were far less than they are now, but both times this happened it was without explicit consent. Derek had been afraid Stiles wouldn’t want him to touch his wings again, after what happened last time, which, in some books, could’ve almost been considered assault, and he hadn’t dared to let his hands wander further up Stiles’s back, despite how much he wanted to, despite how much the memory of soft feathers under his fingertips had haunted him.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, Stiles, please let me –“

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, runs his fingers along the ridge of his wings, and Derek knows he’s done for. “Yes, Derek, always, fuck, just, can you-“

Derek obliges, slides his fingers along the bones protruding from his shoulder blades and into the soft minor coverts, making Stiles choke out a quiet sob before he’s coming messily between them. It only takes him a few more thrust to follow Stiles over the edge, tumbling down the abyss that he knows he knows neither of them will ever escape from.

He doesn’t really care.


End file.
